


Nuanced

by ThunderClatter (OhDear)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhDear/pseuds/ThunderClatter
Summary: Eighth year, picks up following the Battle of Hogwarts. Unsettled and not sure what his new normal is or should be, Harry is granted refuge at Hogwarts for the summer by Professor McGonagall. Keeping himself at a distance from the rest of the wizarding world and helping the Department of Magical Architecture restore the castle and grounds, he begins to process the last seven years of his life without anyone else's input, which challenges him to begin looking at things, and people, differently. Story then tracks into eighth year and beyond, particularly centering around the most challenging relationship he has to make peace with: Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 61





	1. Running

**Author's Note:**

> Majority of this story was written under the influence of three songs. If you can listen while you read to help set the vibe, check out Symphonia IX (Current Joys cover), Weird Science (Current Joys), and I Can Change (LCD Soundsystem) on Youtube.

Harry didn’t leave the Hogwarts grounds for more than two days at a time in the weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts, though that had never been his intention. The Weasleys had invited him to come stay at the Burrow, yes. He’d found himself there with every _intention_ of staying for one weekend at the beginning of June. By that next sleepless morning, well after he’d gotten up and leaned his body back against a creaky window just to stare out at the darkness, wishing for the light of the new morning to appear already, he’d convinced himself he wasn’t ready to be back to “normal.” He'd found his way back to Hogwarts, though Ron and Hermione hadn't quite understood. 

As the traumatized student population had dwindled at Hogwarts, the Ministry population had increased. There had been a full team from the Department of Magical Architecture working around the clock to restore the castle to its state prior to May 2nd, and then some. Harry had helped where they let him, had not pushed for difficult tasks as there had been plenty of basic mending and cleaning up to do, even well into July. 

Ron and Hermione had come to visit, sometimes even staying the night where they all crashed in the common room. Each time they left, they urged that it was time for him to depart, as well. He hadn’t been so sure and, once he’d flatly said that to them, miraculously, they hadn’t pressed _too_ much more. 

In the mornings, he’d begun to run alongside the lake. By the last day of August, it was part of his daily routine. It was bizarre how this had come into being, as he’d never had interest in being remotely able to stick to a plan and definitely had never given any thought to an activity that built up a sweat outside of Quidditch. His mind went somewhere else when he ran, though, which was the most welcome of changes. 

As he started up the stone steps to get up to the castle, he heard his name being called and looked around to find the source of it. It was Professor McGonagall, standing on the landing he was approaching. He smiled, pulling his hair off of his face and to the left side of his head with a rogue hand. He was sure he lacked grace, but judging by her expression she was anything but surprised. 

As he reached the landing, he found his outstretched hand between both of hers, “Professor McGonagall, I think you can just call me Harry now.” 

“Harry," she returned, as if trying it out. She seemed pleased. "It's nice you see you with a smile, especially one that doesn't come at the expense of disrupting Transfiguration class.” Her tone changed after she peered into his face in a careful way. "Are you well?" 

Harry stood in her gaze for meaningful moments as he contemplated her question, “Fine as anyone else, Professor.” 

“You may call me Minerva, if you’d like.” 

He wasn’t quite there yet, and perhaps his expression betrayed him because she cracked the smallest smile. 

“Very well, but I am quite happy to call you Harry until tomorrow morning, at which time you’ll revert back to being Mr. Potter. I spoke with Maxius,” the project manager of the Hogwarts restoration. “He mentioned you have been valued this summer, your help appreciated.” They both looked up at the castle in a thoughtful way, coming to stop before the next stone stairway. “Was the astronomy tower always so dark?” 

Harry followed her eyes to the stone of the tower in the distance. He tilted his head and decided, “Yes.” 

He saw her fix a glance at him. He offered her his left arm, bending his elbow just enough for her to take. She took the offer with her fragile hand, and they started up the steps. Harry couldn’t help but have noticed that the months had caught up with her. She was beginning to show her age in a more obvious way, and in that he was unexpectedly concerned. He wouldn’t dare say so to her, or voice his concern, as it wasn’t his place to do so. He’d had much time to think, to mull things over, in the past handful of weeks, one of those things being that this woman had been a steady and stable presence in his life for closing in on a decade now. Having come to this conclusion on his own a couple of weeks ago, he felt that he was on the precipice of an emotional maturity he yearned for… but didn’t want to jinx it. 

They took the stairs and the walk to the Great Hall in the silence, listening to the chirping birds singing their good mornings. 

“Thank you for letting me stay here," he was sure to throw in as her hand dropped away so she could get back to her plans for the day. “And welcome back for another, er… grand year at Hogwarts.” 

“It will be if you let it.” She knew he had struggled with it, the idea of resuming his studies for an 8th year. They’d had a handful of conversations over the summer when she’d come to visit to check in or help with the castle restorations. The topic had come up each time. When they’d first spoken, he had immediately declined to return the following year, but then word started coming out about how many of his year mates were interested in returning if they thought that he would be, as well. There was a beauty in that. Solidarity, at least. 

Many of the new “eighth years” would be returning to the castle that evening instead of in the morning. Their role, as McGonagall and the Hogwarts board had decided, aside from picking up where their studies had left off months ago, would be to shepherd and stabilize the younger years, keep an eye on them. 

Harry held his left forearm with his right hand behind his back as he peered up and around at the restored foyer. There were improvements in the details following restoration, little things that were barely noticeable but just enough for students who had walked these halls for seven years to pick up on. 

“I only could hope so.” 

When he looked back to her, for her input, a wide open book, she lifted her eyebrows, “It is a wonder to hear you _can_ still hope.” 

“Professor?” 

She turned, hands held together in front of her. 

“Thank you for everything.” 

When she disappeared towards the chatter coming from the Ministry group convening in the restored Great Hall, Harry opted to head up to the Gryffindor common room. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered where they were going to fit everyone. Space was already tight, though in retrospect he couldn’t help but give himself a strong side eye when he remembered the closet under the stairs on Privet Drive. _That_ had been tight. 

It’d been a hell of a ride from the Harry in that closet to the Harry leaning against the door frame of the 7th year Gryffindor room he’d been sleeping in. He crossed his arms while sizing up the room, and then laughed when he heard the question in his head, mimicking McGonagall, which he was only _maybe_ sixty percent mortified about. Had the dorms, with the heavy maroon curtains hanging over the windows between each bed, _always been this dark_? He pulled away from the door frame and began pulling open the curtains between each bed. 

Morning light poured in from the north windows like liquid gold. 

He plopped down on the unmade bed and leaned forward, wrists crossed loosely between his knees. He let the sun warm him, soaking it in for a few thoughtless moments until the chatter returned. It _was_ a constant stream of chatter, and rarely ever a full thought. It was easy to let it affect his mood, so with his morning run behind him and a full day ahead, he stood, stretching in the sun for good measure with his arms up and bent behind his head, and opted to go help with whatever he could in preparation of the evening and next day’s events. 

Later, hours later, so many hours later that his run around the lake felt more like the day before, a select few of his classmates arrived, including Hermione but not Ron, who had elected to help George out with the joke shop instead of returning. George never would have asked for the help, “but it’s what family does,” Ron had told him over Butterbeer and biscuits in Hogsmeade which was also where the thirteen classmates ended up that evening. 

Harry sat in a corner window seat booth against a cold window. Next to him sat Hermione, across from them Seamus and Daphne Greengrass, who Harry had never known much about other than sharing some classes with her over the years. Two longer tables had been pushed next to theirs, surrounded by the rest of their returned peers. After all had been discussed, it seemed like they would be joined by a couple of other classmates in the coming day. 

“Pansy and Millie both secured jobs over the summer. I haven’t heard from or about the others,” Daphne was explaining to Hermione from across the table in a much more posh and controlled voice than Harry was used to hearing. She had just confirmed to them that she was the only female Slytherin from their year to have returned, according to Professor McGonagall. She looked to Blaise Zabini next to her. “We might be the only two.” 

Blaise considered her, took a look at Harry, Hermione, Seamus, and then to his other side where he was surrounded by Hufflepuffs. He lifted the rest of his Butterbeer and downed it in three gulps. It was surprisingly silly and harmless, especially because they were all tuned into one big conversation around who had not returned and why.

Comic relief, Blaise Zabini. Who’d have thought? 

Harry peered at him with interest, hadn’t said much at all quite yet the entire evening other than hugs and handshakes hello. No one had been really quite sure what to say about the unusual situation back at the castle, so loosening up their mouths and minds with alcohol at the Three Broomsticks had been a welcome idea 

“I’m sure there’s an upside,” Hermione tried. “You’ll have more say in how you want to do things with the younger Slytherins.” 

“That’s a nice way of saying Pansy ruled with an iron fist,” Blaise chuckled, and some of the table laughed. There wasn’t any spite in the comment or the laughter, as it was acknowledgement of a fellow classmate’s personality that they had all witnessed. “What’s the upside of being the only male Slytherin eighth year, then? I suppose it might be nice to come in first for classes… not that I have a well developed complex about that.” 

“Malfoy,” Seamus realized who he meant, and the name immediately became the topic. Everyone was looking down the table now at Seamus. “Never thought I’d hear myself say this, and Harry, back me up on that,” and Harry gave him an amused nod of solidarity and motioned for him to proceed, “but I feel something resembling _pity_ for the arsehat. Even my gran and her bridge group gossip like schoolgirls every Sunday about the trials, and the papers and gossip rags have been relentless on the Malfoys. It’s pathetic.” 

“Is it true his mum fled to the States?” Sue Li asked after a few minutes of consistent discussion around the Malfoys during which Harry had tuned out in favor of looking out the window which felt like a sheet of ice next to him. 

It seemed fitting when a family of three appeared on their way to the café across the cobbled stone street. There was a small blonde child walking ahead of his two parents, oblivious to the rain coming down whilst his parents fussed over him by trying to pull his hood over his hair. It didn’t go over well, ha! 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Blaise was saying. “We haven’t spoken in a couple of months. Pansy mentioned she’s had a hard time getting a hold of him, too.” 

“He has a trial coming up,” Harry reminded them. “And the only thing I know about Narcissa Malfoy is that she would never leave her family, or Draco, at a time like this.” 

He left out that he’d heard from a Ministry representative the week before that Narcissa Malfoy had told the Wizengamot her account of what had happened in the forest, and her deception in telling Voldemort that Harry had been dead, thus giving the purposeful assist in basically saving their world from Voldemort. This was a detail that had not yet reached the public. He was to come in, at some point, and testify to the validity of her claim and the timeline, and he was sure once he did so, it WOULD become public knowledge. 

Blaise tilted his head at Harry well after the conversation had changed, catching some eye contact. Harry looked back at him instead of flinching away, holding himself accountable to the moment. Wasn’t this that emotional maturity he was looking for, dealing with complexity straight on? He had nothing to distract himself with otherwise at the moment, not Quidditch, not Ginny or even his friends, and, ah, yes, not Voldemort or the future of their world, or the fact that had Narcissa Malfoy _not_ lied that day, he would have been killed. 

After a moment, his eyes slipped down to his glass, and he subtly pushed it away with a stray finger. He’d had enough to drink and decided to fade away into the background for the rest of the evening’s events. That turned out to be a relatively easy task, as they left for the walk back to the castle earlier than anticipated. The next day would be a long day, after all, and everyone wanted to get a head start on settling in and unpacking. And while his fellow Gryffindors went up to the common room, Harry took his usual night stroll, lastly winding up on the restored Covered Bridge by the Clock Tower courtyard. 

He looked down into the vast darkness below, then out into the night sky while the warm summer wind blew through his hair and rippled up under his thin cotton shirt while he leaned against the wood railing. Was it a mistake to have agreed to stay for an eighth year? If it were any other year, he would have said yes! Had he been asked two years ago if he’d ever stay for an eighth year at Hogwarts, he would have had some expletives to insist otherwise. 

However, Hogwarts had been his home more than any home had ever been in his life, so maintaining a presence here, even just for stability’s sake, seemed like a good idea while he tried to process what he was going to do with the rest of his life. 

Also, quite suddenly he found himself missing Ron. 

It was raining the next morning, but he still got his run in. When he returned to the castle, he found he wasn’t alone for breakfast in the Great Hall. There was a setup at the Hufflepuff table, so he slipped down across from Blaise, and they began to eat in silence. Other sleepy eighth years trickled in, followed then by their Professors who sat with them at the table and broke bread with them. It felt like quite a special thing, but it was a special and unusual time for them all. 

“I will be personally overseeing your activities and duties this year,” Professor McGonagall explained. “As mentioned in your Hogwarts return invitation, there are two tracks you will be asked to choose from by week’s end. Track one puts you on an accelerated course to finish out the classes you didn’t get to finish last year. This will see you finish your coursework by the end of January, at which time you are free to leave as a graduate of Hogwarts. The second option sees you finish out the courses you missed from last year over the full school year’s time, leaving much time for you to take on duties and a role as a mentor, guide, and peacekeeper for younger students, or, if you so choose, spending purposeful time with your professors to learn more about their areas of expertise.” 

This was all news to Harry who looked to Hermione down the table to get her take. She wasn’t surprised, but she had also received the aforementioned letter from Hogwarts detailing the year’s possibilities. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Hermione would choose to finish out the year early. Much as he admired her, he couldn’t see her mentoring younger Gryffindors without losing her mind or her patience. She was eager to get out on her own and work in the Ministry anyway. 

“I will be setting up one on one time with each of you based on the track you decide, placing more importance, at first, on those of you deciding to finish out in late January. Additionally, I would like you to work as a group to come up with a strategy on how to best make your unique presence here useful.” 

“You mean like painting the Quidditch sheds? Ma’am, the sheds are in need, and it might be a good activity for the younger students to bond over a common goal.” 

Professor McGonagall paused, looking towards Seamus with surprise (Harry too) and then gave a nod of approval, “An excellent idea, Mr. Finnegan. That is exactly the spirit the board and Ministry are looking for from you as eighth years. I would look to Mr. Potter for details on any of the restoration work and projects that have been completed over the summer or remain in progress, all of which would be made better by your involvement.” She looked right at Harry without apology. “I look for you to be a leader on any of these efforts, as you have gained an architect’s knowledge of the castle’s intricacies over the summer.” 

Exactly the role he didn’t want. She had to know that. He forced a tight lipped smile, though, and then pushed down the knot in his throat by swallowing a bite of vanilla custard. Was she trying to give him _purpose_? That was all fine and good, but she also knew him well enough to know he was not a particularly organized person. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a tan,” Hermione commented as they walked down towards the lake later in the morning. He looked at her strangely for explanation, then down to his bare arms. He looked at them in comparison to the arm she held out next to his. It was true, he had darkened up. He did a double take. 

“I guess I have spent more time outside this summer than… ever... in my entire life.” 

“Harry!” She laughed, putting her head back and shaking it. “What have you been doing?” 

“Running in the morning, most of July I was working on the outdoor restorations… and flying a lot,” he started to add up on his fingers as he peered up at the overcast sky hiding the sun, almost accusingly. He was strangely chuffed, though. 

“I think you’ve even got a little sunburn,” she teased. “What do you think you’ll do after we graduate?” 

“You mean in February?” 

“Of course. Oh,” she turned towards him and began to walk backwards, looking up at him. “Were you thinking about staying the entire year?” 

“I didn’t know there was an option otherwise until two hours ago. No doubt you’ll want to graduate early, huh?” 

“It doesn’t feel early enough, actually. Feels truly strange to be back here after everything. I didn’t think this many of us would return. It _almost_ makes me want to stay the entire year.” 

“Almost,” Harry smiled genuinely and gave her a playful elbow as she returned back to walking beside him. “Don’t stay. You need to graduate. I don’t know what I’m doing yet. About graduation… or life.” He paused and glanced at her. Before she could react, he found this odd laugh come out of his own mouth, up from his stomach. He had _almost_ missed this. 

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him instead of commenting, then settled on, “Molly was concerned you’d spent _too_ much time alone this summer. I think she may have been right. Who are you? What have you done with Harry?” 

“I don’t know where he went. A tan _and_ self reflection?” He looked back over his shoulder back at the castle, in all seriousness, even came to a full stop, as if to search for himself. She looked over, too, and he could see her squinting at him. He took his time in pulling his eyes away, dramatically, and looked deeply at her with a furrowed brow before he let it go and laughed again, this time into his wrist. He was equal parts amused and frustrated with how she had been and was currently treating him. “I’m _fine_ , Hermione.” He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little shake and gently urged her back into step. His hand traveled and he loosely draped his right arm over her shoulders as they walked. “Tell me about your plan to get your parents home. Has Maxwell,” a man from the Ministry Arthur had put her in touch with and a man she would be getting an apprenticeship with come March, “been able to help arrange a plan for reversing the charm’s effects once we get them back here?” 

“The Ministry has gone out of their way to help. They’re arranging for my dad to get a transfer from Australia back to London, and once they’re here and settled, we’ll start working on undoing the damage.” 

“It has to be a slow process?” 

“It doesn’t _have_ to be, but that’s the safest way to do it. It will be less of a shock to them once the charms are completely lifted. And that’s, well… if it works at all.” 

Harry watched her profile as they walked, and instead of saying anything, because there was nothing he could say, he squeezed her shoulder as they reached the lake. They stood there awhile as they were, looking out over the clouds above it until the sun found a crack to peek out of, casting some golden sunshine on them both and the castle, too. 

“Whatever happens, ‘mione,” he told her, turning from trying to skip a rock over the surface of the lake a couple of minutes later, “I’ll be here.” 

Hermione, now sitting in the grass with her arms around her knees, smiled in return and motioned him to come sit. He plopped down next to her and draped his arms over his bare knees. He looked at his hairy calves, giving them a rub with his hands. He subtly glanced to check if his legs matched his arms.

Hermione saw through it and laughed into her arm, “So silly.” 

“I’ve never been tan before,” he defended himself. “It’s weird. It’s weird, right? It’s weird. Skin is. Humans too. Weird.” 

“ _You’re_ weird. Are you going to testify for the Malfoys?” 

“It wasn’t the Malfoys or anyone representing them who reached out about whether or not I would. It’s the court pulling me in to confirm whether or not Narcissa’s account is true. The full context of how it came up, I don’t know.” 

“I don’t know if I could do it. No, actually. I _know_ I would not.” 

Harry considered her expression, thought about her interactions with the Malfoys, and then peered back out at the lake. He understood where she was coming from, but so secretly he heard some part of him justifying the difference between them. She had the privilege of not having to be forgiving.

As close as he was to Ron and Hermione, their experiences were not the same despite having orbited the same group of people and situations over the years. He didn’t have the luxury of letting Malfoy rot, nor would he have wanted to. In the most unexpected way, his relationship with Malfoy had branches and veins that reached outside of the context of childhood disagreements. It was a nearly intimate hate and rage Harry had felt for him several times over the years. There was power in that, emotions in that, and he was dealing with that, too. 

Going to court for anything having to do with the Malfoys, then, was a natural part of trying to put closure around the sour parts of the last seven years. 

“Sometimes I try to wrap my mind around what it might be like to be a Malfoy.” 

“Why would you want to do that?” 

It was complicated, and he wasn’t sure how to put that into words yet, so he struggled stupidly. 

“You know me, I love to play the Devil’s Advocate, but not with this. Voldemort may be gone, but his ideology was there before him. It’ll still be around after him.” 

“Not for long, ‘mione. The older generation will die off.” 

“That just means they’ll learn to conceal it better. Could you imagine Draco ever allowing his child to be intimately involved with someone who wasn’t a pureblood?”

“I prefer not to imagine Malfoy having children.” 

“Ugh,” and she flicked his knee. He only raised an eyebrow at the tiny sting. “You are annoyingly blasé about him.” 

Harry struggled, “Look, I… ‘mione, none of us are simple. There’s a familial element that permeates all of those families… the Blacks, the Lestranges, and all of the “Sacred Twenty Eight.” Even when Sirius spoke about his family, it was with the same whimsy--exasperation, yeah… but whimsy. The principles you mentioned are ones that have served them for centuries. Why would they think to change?” 

“Nuanced Harry is going to take some getting used to, and while I can appreciate this side of you, I wish my exposure to it weren’t you trying to find any redeemable qualities about _Malfoy_. He nearly got you killed multiple times.” 

“I know, ‘mione. That wasn’t my point, though.” He blinked himself away from his trance on the water and crossed his arms over his knees, leaning against his thighs. He flexed his toes up off of the ground so his calf muscles stretched. They yearned for another run. “We have to paint the Gryffindor Quidditch shed.” 

“ _Really_ ,” she commented at his abrupt change of subject. “We could get creative with it.” 

“Creative how?” 

“Maybe the houses could paint their sheds with a theme. You know, Ravenclaw spirit? Hufflepuff power? Gryffindor pride? Slytherin… spite? Just kidding. Ra ra?” 

They continued talking about it, and once back at the castle, they happened to run into Professor McGonagall. Instead of Hermione staying to champion her idea, though, she headed off for the common room. Meanwhile, in a strange turn of events, Harry found himself in what was now her office, once Dumbledore’s, talking to her about “guidelines on the creativity.” 

“And _no charms_.” 

“ _No charms_? But how else would we make a lion stalk the siding of the Gryffindor shed when a Slytherin approaches? Or a group of ravens... swoop around the Ravenclaw door when a Hufflepuff nears it?” 

“An unkindness.” She saw his confusion. “A group of ravens is called _an unkindness_.” 

“Okay. It is also _an unkindness_ to prohibit charms.” 

She turned around with a quirked eyebrow at the unexpectedly quick reply. He gave a slight nod of his head, as if to agree it had been a risky move, and he left the subject at that while she moved up the three stairs to get to the platform her desk was on. She set her wand down on it and motioned him to one of the seats in front of it. 

Harry followed her up the steps and sat, as requested. 

She sat, too, but in the chair next to him instead of on the other side of the desk. It was something he could have never imagined Dumbledore doing, “Fine, but the charms must be appropriate and cleared by the eighth years of each house, which means you and your classmates will be held accountable for the end product.” 

“Should you okay the final design proposed by each house, then?” 

“I feel that puts me at a disadvantage when I have to vote for my favorite.” 

“We will take responsibility.” She was satisfied. 

“You and your classmates will shape what our world looks like, and that is because you are at the helm, and we, as a community, are on par for a vast shift. And Potter, it is not with pressure I hesitantly say this to you, but I have been proud to see you grow into a natural ability to lead from a humble, and therefore powerful, position. You voice matters, whenever, or however, you may choose to use it. Please be aware of that, of the weight of your words.” 

“Professor, do you… do you think I should stay the full year?” 

“You must make your own decision.” 

“If you were me,” he tried. 

“Take the week to think about it. If you’re still not sure, ask me again. In the meantime, how is the Gryffindor common room looking?” 

“Ready for fifteen to thirty new students and one hundred and thirty old ones.” He followed her eyes to the clock on her desk, as if reminding them both that it was only hours until all of those mentioned students would be arriving. She had many last things to do, as did everyone else, so he thanked her for her time and encouragement about Hermione’s idea and found his way back to the empty common room. 

It did need a little sprucing, so he opened the windows to get fresh air in and opened all the curtains wide, just like he had his dorm room windows. The light was nice and illuminated the entire staircase that went up the curved wall. He sat down midway and looked down at the common room. It was the greatest place he had ever known. It was where he had spent the best times of his life with his friends, laughing in front of the fireplace, commiserating over assignments, eating leftovers and stuffing candy wrappers into cushions… only to be yelled at days later when someone found it and accused him because, “only you eat this rubbish!” 

Guilty. 

It was like a blink later that he was back on the stairs again, though now dark outside, watching the common room fill up with returning students. It was so loud, a constant buzzing. He had given the first years a pep talk, taken them back to the common room early from the feast to give them a chance to get a look at their Gryffindor common room for the first time. The awe on each of their faces was so beautiful it was nearly painful, hit Harry with nostalgia so hard he could have cried. 

Their new Gryffindor prefects did the usual spiel, while the eighth years stood on the stairs, taking it all in. Their role had been explained during the feast, that they were not only there to finish out their schooling, but there to act as mentors and helpers. The younger students had been encouraged to “take advantage of this opportunity, as it will benefit and enrich your time here, and theirs, as well.” 

Harry had been stared at constantly the entire meal through, which, true, was not an experience he was totally unfamiliar with. It was at a whole other level now. He had not particularly planned for this, because he had spent much of the summer in solitary with interactions, especially with people he didn’t know, few and far between. He understood it, had even heard quiet conversation between a group of fourth years that they were surprised he would have come back when he could have been doing “literally _anything, anywhere_.” 

“It’s going to be a long year,” Seamus sighed at Harry on the way up to the dorm they were sharing with four seventh years they both knew well enough to not be nervous about. It was the same dorm room Harry had been sleeping in, but an extra bed and desk had been added. It was much more cramped, but he dove on to his bed and spelled the drapes of the four poster bed to close around him. 

“Aye Potter, it’s a bit early for a wank, innit?” 

“Leave him alone, mate. Never too early for a wank.” 

“True and wise words, Finnegan.” 

Harry laughed as he lay on his back in the new darkness of his personal space. He agreed silently with Seamus, that if he decided to stay, it was going to be a _very_ long year, but he also agreed that it was never too early for a wank. But the truth was, he just wanted to escape the day and fall away into peaceful sleep which he treasured still now. He hadn’t had a nightmare in months, a true gift, but he also did not dream at all. Or, if he did, he didn’t remember. 

That night, of course, he dreamed of, and remembered upon waking up, Madam Malkin’s Robes in Diagon Alley, where he stood as himself, at eighteen years old, watching from between two mirrors, a small version of himself, and a small version of Draco Malfoy, meeting for the very first time. 


	2. Childhood Nemesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Despite all of the testimony and evidence we have to the contrary, you believe that Draco Malfoy is a good person?” 
> 
> Merlin, no. Hell no! He tried his best to keep his internal sentiments from surfacing on his face, though, “I’m not saying he’s a good person. I’m not saying a lot of things. What I am saying is that I do not believe he is a murderer.”

True to her word, McGonagall held the 8th years to theirs. Each morning she expected them to arrive an hour earlier than the rest of the students. This was their time to discuss challenges and setbacks and to give her, and the other professors, a glimpse into how the students were fairing being back and away from their families.

It was only a Wednesday when Harry arrived late for the first time. Obnoxiously, he was the only one late. He didn’t even try to excuse himself and explain that he’d found a third year Hufflepuff staring idly at the grass while sitting on a bench on the way back from his run. He had bothered her incessantly until she’d agreed to come with him back to the castle. She hadn’t said much, but Harry could tell that being persistent with her to come back with him was a guiding hand… exactly what the 8th years were supposed to be doing. 

He didn’t receive any acknowledgement or ire for having joined on a delay, so he sat down at the table and listened as Daphne spoke about the Slytherins in general, spoke plainly that they felt like the other students were singling them out. They didn’t feel welcome, despite, Daphne made sure to tell them, the fact that none of them had reason to feel that way. 

“There is nothing wrong with being a Slytherin. It is a proud house.”

“Slytherin has had a reputation for, uh…. what’s the word… incubating? Incubating. Incubating dark wizards since its conception. It’s going to take time to separate Slytherin _house_ from the questionable paths many Slytherins chose.” 

“That’s not exactly helpful, Harry,” Hermione offered, taking a glance at Blaise and Daphne’s faces. “Seventy percent of Slytherin house returned, none of whom had anything to do with He Who… Voldemort. It would make sense to reason that applies to their families, as well.” 

Harry wanted to remind her that she was playing her beloved Devil’s Advocate but withheld in order to rephrase what he’d meant. He brought his hands up from the table, as if to surrender, and tried again, “An open wound takes time to heal, is all.” 

“I’ve heard Slytherins talking about wanting to go home. Fifth years who were genuinely considering leaving _Hogwarts_ to go home, Potter, because they feel embarrassed and confused,” Blaise explained to Harry from across the table. “And it’s just Daphne and I trying to undo damage, and meanwhile the entire rest of our Slytherin year class didn’t return. How do we try to explain for them? It’s a mess--and it… it doesn’t help that all of their questions are the same questions I struggle with justifying _myself_.” 

“No one has the answers.” 

“I don’t know, Potter. You seem to think you have it all figured out.” 

It was too early to take the bait, so he finished the last of his pumpkin juice before standing and lifting his leg over the back of the bench. He offered a light smile, and that was all, as he excused himself. He had no energy to argue or banter about this, walked out of the Great Hall, got showered, and went to Herbology in the greenhouse where Neville was now basically co-teaching with Professor Sprout. 

Eventually Harry leaned forward against the worn wood pottery bench, looking up at the glass as the rain drops collided. The sound, the rumbling of it, nearly lulled him to sleep. He only righted his posture when he got a light tap on his arm to do so by Professor Sprout’s wand as she passed. She asked if he would stay after class for a few moments. He agreed, and when everyone had left, except Neville, she motioned Harry to come over towards them. 

“The greenhouses could do with some sprucing up. I spoke about it with Neville, and we thought it’d be a worthwhile investment to do some renovations--that is, not necessarily restore, but rebuild. When discussing with Minerva, she suggested I get your thoughts, as you had some role to play in the renovations of the area during the summer?” 

“It was badly damaged,” Harry agreed, and he thumbed along the glass where, if you looked closely enough, small cracks still existed. The glass has been shattered from the top down, and not having had the funds at the time to do rebuilds, a restore had been done. But even with magic, restoring glass never restored it to its original splendor. “There were structural issues that prevented them from doing substantial work like they did with the castle, but I don’t know all the details. I’ll be at the Ministry next week, perhaps I could swing by and find Maxius or someone from his team to ask.” 

“Splendid! We’d like to have them come out and take another look, as well.” 

“Professor McGonagall directed you to _me_ to put you in touch with them?” He inquired, when he was at the doorway, looking back at them both. Neville was in his own world, already back to work and preparing for the third year class who were nearing the greenhouse. “She could have easily reached out to the Ministry herself.” 

“I believe she made it a point for me to speak with you first.” 

Harry adjusted the diagonal bag strap that crossed his chest in a thoughtful way, but it lifted and he pulled his hair to the right of his head from the left, noting that when his fingers got caught in a knot, it was probably time for a haircut. He put it on his list of things to do in the coming weeks, gave Professor Sprout a polite farewell with a head nod. 

“Later, Neville.” 

“Bye, Harry!” He turned, a mandrake in his hands, covered in dirt. He was beside himself. 

Harry cracked a smile, unable to help it, in a fond way, before he exited. As he passed the third years, they all turned to look at him. He didn’t exactly shy away, but he wasn’t the most friendly or talkative person. He gave a nod but made no eye contact, then hopping up the stone steps. And when he finally arrived back at the portrait of The Fat Lady, she relayed a message that Professor McGonagall wanted to see him. He grumbled. 

“Pouting like a first year.” 

Harry turned and looked back at the portrait, “I wasn’t pouting. At least not like a first year.” 

It was the first time he had ever replied to her conversationally. She said nothing else, let him have his disagreement, and then he started back down the steps. He did cast a glance back at her, finding her whispering to the portrait three down from hers. He cast them a glance to add flames to their gossiping fire, and found himself on another long walk.

He was only halfway to McGonagall’s office when he nearly collided with her and the prefects. He jumped aside, but as she hurried on her way, she let them take the lead and turned, her skirt whipping around. 

“An official letter arrived from the Wizengamot. It required a signature of receipt. You will find it on the desk in my office. You understand, it arrived with the kind urgency that shouldn’t have fallen in any other hands? Flip flops.” The password to get into her office. She was in such a hurry that she turned right around and hurried after the fourth year. He stared after them with slight concern for her physical well-being. It wasn’t his place to worry, he reminded himself. 

He continued on to her office and hopped up the three steps to the grand desk. There was a stack of letters and parcels, but he saw the seal and stamp of the Wizengamot sitting right in the center of it. He lifted it, and as he did so, he heard a throat clear. He paced himself before taking a glance to the left. He caught the portrait of Dumbledore with one eye open, peering at him. But it quickly closed. 

Harry said nothing, turned towards it fully with a squint. He didn’t say anything. The portrait didn’t open its eyes again. Okay. Okay. He accepted the silence, took the steps slowly down, looking at the portraits of other previous headmasters and notable, influential educators who he wouldn’t be able to name in his wildest dreams. Though he wanted to, he didn’t look back to see if the portrait was now watching. Instead, he walked out, already sliding his finger under the flap of the envelope’s crisp parchment and popping the seal off. 

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You are summoned to appear at the Wizengamot on Tuesday morning at 10AM in the matter of Draco Malfoy vs The Ministry. We cannot guarantee what time or day you will appear before the Wizengamot. Due to the high visibility of the trial in question and your standing, we will be providing an escort to ensure your arrival is discrete. Please be at the Great Hall fireplace at 9AM._

Harry read it over twice, having slowed to a stop. He let the creased letter fold back in half in his left hand while he looked down the empty corridor. Draco Malfoy vs The Ministry? It was a slight surprise for Harry, who had been under the impression he would just be providing testimony to Narcissa’s claims in a deposition. He had no idea what to expect now, dreaded the idea of having to sit in one of the court rooms. 

Quite suddenly, it felt like he should have been consulting someone for advice. In his younger years, it would have been Dumbledore or Arthur and Molly, but now he wasn’t so sure. You know, he didn’t have a lawyer or his own representation. It might have been a good idea to look into that in the coming week, as well, he told himself. And if he was going to be in the actual courtroom, surely there would be reporters salivating at the fact he was there, sketching out his reactions. So maybe that haircut needed to be taken care of sooner than later. Showing up in court like the shaggy-haired mess he _was_ wouldn’t be good for headlines he was trying desperately to stay out of. 

By the time Tuesday morning rolled around and the Ministry official arrived, his nonchalance about the day in question had disappeared and been replaced with a stone in his stomach. He followed her into the fireplace a short time later and arrived in the bustling heart of the Ministry, the Atrium. No one seemed to notice, though, so he kept his head down and followed her on a path it was clear they had worked on setting up ahead of his arrival, including a dark tunnel that led them on a ten minute walk, lastly spitting them out in a small courtroom on level 2 of the Ministry. 

Harry was relieved, “Not many people here.” 

“You wish this was the courtroom you’re in.” 

They turned a couple of corners until a distant buzzing of a crowd became louder, indicating a media presence and a busy lobby. A few endless corners later, she arrived at a door. She turned to him, wordlessly, gave a nod, and opened the door. 

His stomach dropped, because this was not any courtroom. This was the Wizengamot courtroom! He had hoped this wouldn’t be the case, but he supposed high-profile cases, by default, took place here. In that moment, he realized he was completely ignorant of how the wizarding courts worked outside of the run-ins he had had up until that point. He made a note to learn more.

“You’ll take a seat in the Ministry’s box.” 

It was loud and chaotic, so he was quick to sit as to not be noticed by the courtroom as a whole. His attention drifted across the circular room to a box where only one person sat, Narcissa, withered and a ghost of who she had been last Harry had seen her.

He... barely recognized her.

She, however, recognized him. He saw she was not alone in this realization, so he adjusted in his seat and introduced himself politely to the witch next to him to distract himself.

His escort soon appeared, and she sat down on his other side. Oh, more of a bodyguard? Not such a terrible thing. He leaned slightly in towards his left with his chin tilted down, inquiring, “It is appropriate for me to be sitting here? I’m not testifying for the Ministry.” 

“You’re a Ministry witness.” 

This was bad, Harry thought, as he pulled his spine straight. Yep, he definitely should have consulted someone.

The stone in his stomach grew, but soon enough the chamber was quieted and the Wizengamot filled in. Once they were settled, the magistrate spoke to the courtroom about procedure, something he had clearly recited probably a thousand times in his life, if not more, judging by the monotone with which it had been delivered. 

“Court officers,” the magistrate bellowed, turning and looking towards double doors, “bring the accused, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to stand trial.” 

The visions that Harry hadn’t realized he’d even had of this moment were nothing like what actually unfolded. Out of a pair of doors swooped a dementor to assess the situation, or maybe as a preventative measure to ensure no one tried anything funny. The chamber went icy, and not having been prepared for it, Harry felt weak. He looked down and away until the dementor disappeared.

In its place came four burly Wizengamot officers. They so tightly surrounded Draco that one could not make him out until he’d been seated on the chair in the center of chambers, magically strapped and bound. The officers stepped away, and all too suddenly the courtroom was in total silence, and there in the center of it all sat a slumped, pathetic Draco Malfoy.

Harry leaned forward in his seat to get a better glimpse.

Was Draco even conscious? 

He searched wildly up to the members of the Wizengamot. Some seemed to share a similar vein of concern. But then the magistrate snapped his fingers, and Draco’s head slowly came up. There was some murmuring about this technique.

And even Harry adjusted uncomfortably on the wood beneath him. 

The Ministry began to present its case. 

Harry sat through the morning session, eventually leaned up against the box with his arms crossed, watching and listening intently to the arguments made by the Ministry and their witnesses. Meanwhile, Draco sat silently. Occasionally he’d turn his head and look in his mother’s direction. She never made any expressions back at him, because, unlike Draco, the whole courtroom could see, and would infer, her reactions and emotions.

The only time she’d cracked was when a member of the Wizengamot was grilling the witness on the stand about Draco’s involvement in her father’s death two summers earlier. 

At half past twelve, a recess was called, and Harry was glad to get up and stretch his legs.

It was an intense case, and the details and picture painted of Draco’s actions and life were… dark. They were _after_ him, and there wasn’t any leniency in their approach. They wanted the name and the headline. And if they got Draco, it was clear, it was one more coffin in the trial of _Lucius_ Malfoy. 

Harry saw a sketch as he passed by the courtroom artist’s rendering of the morning’s session for a salivating press. He stood back, leaning against a wall from a distance, and observed. It was a sketch of _him_ in the Ministry witness box, leaned up over the edge of it, with the giant “MINISTRY” sign hanging overhead. He was thoughtful of it only until he was noticed by court folk, at which point his Ministry escort guided him back into the mostly vacated courtroom.

He looked to his left, where he’d been sitting, then lifted his attention up to where the MINISTRY signage glimmered. It was where those testifying on behalf of the Ministry’s interests sat. This soured him, and while the Harry Potter of a year ago went left in spirit, following his escort, nuanced Harry… he decisively went right. He stepped down, even, onto the Wizengamot floor, crossing it because it was the fastest way to get where he was aimlessly--or recklessly--headed. 

Narcissa stared at him as he stepped up and turned into her otherwise empty box, but he didn’t take the moment to stare back. He was too busy planting himself down because his escort and the magistrate were soon closing in. The magistrate was looking nervously at the few witches and wizards who were still in the room and were watching because, well, _this was something_.

They were soon in front of him, as if to almost block him from everyone’s view. They were making themselves quite large. 

“Mister Potter, I have to insist you come with me right now,” his escort calmly approached. “You are here as the Ministry’s guest.” 

“That may be,” he swallowed and hoped he came across confidently in spite of it, “but this is where I’d like to sit.” 

It was at this moment that the Wizengamot was called back into order. Saved!

The courtroom was filling back up in a matter of seconds, and the three of them, Harry, the magistrate, and the escort stared back and forth at each other. None was sure exactly what to do or how to handle the situation.

Lastly, the magistrate made an undignified sound of distress and muttered that they didn’t want to give this undue attention and make it a scene. He motioned the escort to step away from how she stood over a seated Harry and to return to the Ministry’s box. She went. 

When the magistrate moved away, following after her, Harry’s breath hitched, because what came into view, _instead_ , was Draco Malfoy, easily having dropped a significant amount of weight from his tall, once solid frame. His cheekbones were visible. Under his pale eyes, there were black, nearly purple embedded circles. Whether that was from lack of sleep, or bruises, or anything else, Harry couldn’t tell. 

Draco focused on him in return, but there was nothing behind it, no distinct expression or reaction. If there was confusion, he didn’t show it. He just took in the scene the same way Harry was taking him in, with the attention of the full courtroom directed on Harry and at Draco’s back.

The Minister, as he took his spot to call trial back to session, also did a double-take at Harry. 

The room was in a breathless buzz.

A flash or fifty went off, and Harry knew they were all pointed at him sitting at the other end of Narcissa’s Malfoy’s bench. He kept his eyes on the Wizengamot the whole time, unfazed. 

Okay, er, pretending to be unfazed. 

It was the one time, the first time, even, he had harnessed… his own presence.

The clicking of the cameras eventually died down, at which time the Minister looked to the magistrate with something of bewilderment. He waited, even, patiently, until the room was silent once more, then gave a pound of his gavel and the trial commenced. 

The afternoon was as intense as the morning had been, but now there were also more specific, horrific details of crimes Draco, himself, was accused of. 

When his own name was mentioned, Harry did his best not to have a reaction. He listened closely to statements given about his interaction with Draco over the years, particularly the last two years, and the pieces from Draco’s end that Harry never would have known about. Private conversations with his peers, friends.

The Ministry was setting this very much up to be exactly how it seemed: Draco had knowingly put many, including Harry Potter, in direct danger as a result of his actions. It was insinuated, and going off of the testimony they had, believable, that Draco had been part of direct plots to get Harry killed. 

Only twice did Harry actually look at Draco during any of it.

Draco never looked back. Like the morning, his head mostly stayed down. He never shook it. He never showed reaction. There was no remorse. There was no enthusiasm. No outrage. There was nothing snide. There was just… nothing. To say he was withdrawn would have been a massive understatement, which was saying a lot considering the circumstances of an entire team having spent the better part of a year dissecting his life to put it out in display in the way they were. It painted a terrible picture, blatantly. 

The trial ended for the day at around 6PM. The court was instructed to clear out, but Harry stayed where he was well after Draco had left the courtroom. No one from the Ministry would dare to approach Harry here, and even Malfoy’s lawyer seemed unsure if he should as he approached Narcissa and inquired about her take on the day.

“Mister Potter,” he also said, and Harry shook his hand as he stood, leaning down over the elevated box to do so. “I’m Reginald Bluster, head council for the Malfoys. My team, Rick Milk and Jessica Stilts.”

Harry excused himself, stepping down out of the box. He found his beloved Ministry escort standing over by the door he had come in through. He sheepishly approached her. When she saw him coming, she opened the door. He walked past her, then felt her following him back into the empty hallway.

She said nothing. He said nothing. It was great!

It was central London, and never having explored magical London much, he knew of only two establishments that seemed reasonably close where he could take refuge. He found himself at a small pub, The Feather Cap, with a handful of rooms above it. He had himself a huge glass of alcoholic Butterbeer and sat in a corner booth, alternating between long drinks and rubbing his face, pulling at his newly trimmed hair with his fingers and hands, trying to make sense of the day.

He had to hand it to the Ministry, as they had done a very effective job of making Draco Malfoy out to be exactly who the caricature of Draco Malfoy had been, even to Harry. It really didn’t look good for Draco...

The next morning, as he walked down the street to get to the Ministry, he read theories in the Daily Prophet about his “power play” by having taken a seat in the defense box with Narcissa. What did that even mean? There were all sorts of opinions about it, too, that appeared in the “reader opinions” section. No one knew what to make of it, and he let himself resent it for just a few moments.

His Ministry escort was waiting for him. He politely said good morning and informed her that he would be going into the courtroom as anyone else today. She was not thrilled but bit her tongue. She followed him from the Atrium up to the second level of the Ministry, into the main lobby of Magical Law Enforcement, and then down the _impossibly_ long corridor. 

He let himself be seen this time, and when he entered the Wizengamot, he walked to the right, back to the box where Narcissa Malfoy sat. Unlike the day before, Harry sat more towards the middle of the box and not on its end.

“Good morning.” He turned his face slightly, to see if she would acknowledge him. 

“Good morning.” She fidgeted with a sentimental item in her hands, which he hadn’t noticed the details of the day before. It was a worn, tattered little thing, some sort of stuffed item. A childhood toy? Draco’s, he assumed. The curiosity of that, to think of Draco Malfoy as a child with a toy, like any other child, though, innocent and pure, was a bridge too far for Harry. 

And then she tersely managed, staring down at the sentimental gizmo, “Thank you.” 

Oh, “You’re welcome.” 

The day started off with a bang, full speed ahead, and two hours in, it was Harry’s turn.

“The Ministry calls Harry James Potter.”

“Can you please state your name, acknowledgment of why you sit here before the Wizengamot, and any pertinent details as to the nature of your interaction, involvement, and relationship with the accused, Draco Malfoy?” 

“Harry James Potter,” he stated clearly, as he’d been instructed, wide helpless eyes on the magistrate. “To the best of my knowledge, I am here to testify on the… to the, uh, validity of claims made about Draco Malfoy’s involvement with Voldemort.” He paused, staring back at the people staring at him. He felt very hot under his collar now, maybe feverish, eyes moving from the magistrate to Draco, who he now sat facing nearly straight on, though from an elevated position. Looking down on him, really. 

“Can you tell us a little about your relationship with the accused?” 

Harry considered Draco and the dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t quite know this Draco Malfoy, which made this easier, “I’d consider him my... childhood... nemesis.” 

The magistrate paused, looked at his paper, then turned and fixed Harry with a twisted mouth, “A school age _nemesis_ ? Mister Potter, you _were_ present in the courtroom earlier, correct?”

“Yes.” 

“You _were_ present when the magistrate read aloud the various journal entries from the accused, and witness statements, in inflammatory detail, about his blatant unbridled _hate_ for you. Yet, just a childhood nemesis.” 

“To me, yes. That is all I can speak to.” 

“We have countless witness statements that speak specifically to the tumultuous and toxic interactions you shared with the accused, including many from your close friends. Hermione Granger.” He held up a paper to the court and then reached up and put it in front of Harry. He then put another one on top of it. “Ronald Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall… I could go on, we have a whole chest full. A childhood nemesis?” 

“Sir,” Harry struggled, “I… well, may I take you back to the beginning? For me to explain, I think, er, you’d have to understand it from the beginning.” 

“Take us there.” 

“You used the word hate, that he hated me, or _hates_ me, but that feeling was--or is--mutual, and it did start out innocently enough as two eleven year old kids meeting at a robe shop. Later, when it was less innocent, my own suspicions of Draco drove me nearly insane. I followed him around for the better part of a year, tracking his every move. I… nearly killed him in a blind rage. Had I not been me, I would have been expelled from Hogwarts. I would have been sitting before you myself.” He was ashamed of his actions now, but he wasn’t sure he would have taken them back.

“You showed his journal pages yesterday. Sir, if I ‘d have had time to journal, I’d have a whole book on my hate for him in return. What I’m saying is, he nor I grew up disliking each other over petty differences. The stage was set by his parents and by mine and a fight way bigger than all of us. I know my own judgment was clouded by the circumstances around me, so I know to assume the same of him. But I do not think, despite what these may say,” he touched the small stack of parchment statements with his fingertips, “he was capable of hating others, to hurt them the way that has been portrayed, the way he very specifically hated me.” 

“Despite all of the testimony and evidence we have to the contrary, _you_ believe that Draco Malfoy is a good person?” 

Merlin, no. Hell no! He tried his best to keep his internal sentiments from surfacing on his face, “I’m not saying he’s a good person. I’m not saying a lot of things. What I am saying is that I do not believe he is a murderer.”

“You’re of the opinion that many of these witnesses lied, then?” 

Including his friends?

Harry lightly touched the stack of papers again, and he considered his words and the consequences for a long few moments, glancing over some of the statements, before he managed, “The Ministry has presented timelines for two alleged events that I know to be false. I know this because I was his alibi for those dates and times. I can also speak to having been in battle in, uh… unprecedented and tense situations where he showed restraint I know others in his position could not have. Particularly, when Voldemort himself held his father’s life and fate in his hands, deeply suspicious of Lucius’s loyalty, and ordered Draco to kill Albus Dumbledore. I can speak to how even with Death Eaters surrounding him, goading him on, knowing full well that he would be punished, and his father too, he lowered his wand. He is not a killer.” 

“Mr. Potter, are you aware that Draco Malfoy took the Dark Mark?” 

“I suspected.” 

“Do you know what the initiation requirements are to take the Dark Mark?” 

“I’ve read about it.” 

“Then you know to be initiated, one must make two kills.” 

“Could you please cite the source for that?” 

The magistrate stopped, glanced at him, and then half smiled as he cleared his throat, “The Daily Prophet, Mr. Potter.” 

“The... _reporter,_ sir?” 

“Rita Skeeter.” 

“Was she not fired from the Prophet on account of her faulty journalism and reporting, sir?”

“It is well documented to have come out of these trials, Mr. Potter, and from the mouths of Death Eaters themselves.” 

“We take Death Eaters at their word only when they tell us what we want to believe, then.” 

“ _Mr. Potter_ , you were called here to testify to claims made by a witness that in the events leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts. Is it true you were in the Forbidden Forest, that Death Eaters and Voldemort himself were there?” 

“Yes.” 

“While we have had a look at the details of the debriefing you gave to the Ministry around the events that unfolded that night, could you please provide us an account of your interaction, if any, with Narcissa Malfoy?” 

“After being hit with the killing curse, Narcissa Malfoy was asked by Voldemort to confirm that I was dead. When she got to me, she pulled back an eyelid. I was alive.” 

“Checking to see if your blood vessels were frayed,” the magistrate clarified, “a common technique to confirm that the killing curse was used.” 

“Yes, sir. She then put her hand on my chest to feel if I was alive.” He held his chest distinctly where he remembered her hand. He remembered the way his pulse had been pounding. He stopped speaking just a moment to process it, recalling the scent of moss and earth in his nose. “She could feel me breathing. She asked if Draco was alive. I told her yes. She rose and announced I had no pulse. It is because of the bravery of small acts of others and the selfless act from Narcissa Malfoy that Voldemort is dead. And it is because of the… uh, complex connection, with a _childhood nemesis_ , and the events that were unfolding with him in the days leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, that such a thing is true.” 

There was an audible murmur in the chambers. 

The Magistrate moved towards the Minister’s box, and the Minister leaned down to hear him. 

“I cannot, Minister, in good faith continue my line of questioning, as I believe the weight of Mr. Potter’s testimony in defense of the accused carries significance our case cannot withstand based on evidence and public opinion. The court recommends dropping its high charges in order to focus on known Death Eaters, and we will pursue Mr. Malfoy in the lower courts for the petty charges.” 

Harry’s eyes darted wildly from the Magistrate to the Minister, privy to their quiet conversation. 

At the potential thought of just his testimony freeing Draco, a wave of physical dizziness washed over a clammy Harry.

The Minister pulled himself straight, peering over at a pathetic Draco for a long few moments. 

It was wild, to say the least, what came next, “The Ministry will drop its high charges against the accused. Draco Lucius Malfoy, your cases will be adjusted and sent to the petty court for sentencing. Upon agreement to terms for that sentencing, you are free to be released into custody of the court’s choosing.” 

The gavel went down. 

The room erupted. 

Harry was blinded by lights. In the chaos of it all, the excitement, both jeers and cheers, Harry looked to the Minister to get the okay to step down. He got it, and a half smile as the Minister turned away to follow another member of the Wizengamot out of the chambers. 

“Now do you need me?” 

He turned, finding the most wonderful sight in the world--his Ministry escort. He gratefully nodded with his hands held together in front of him in silent praise, and then followed her lead and departed the chambers through the Wizengamot door instead of the main doors.

Once back in the empty corridor, he put his back to a white wall and leaned down with his hands on his knees. His left hand clutched over his seemingly empty gut. _Had that really just happened_? He concentrated on his breath a few times before straightening his spine and unexpectedly finding a voyeur, “Er, hello Minister.”

“I don’t mind if you call me Kingsley, Harry. In fact, I’d prefer it.” He took Harry’s equally tall shoulder, as if to assess him, and then shook his outstretched hand. When the handshake dropped, he paced Harry and gave him one shake. It wasn’t the place to discuss what had just occurred in detail. “Magistrate, would you accompany our Mister Potter into the chambers for the sentencing?” 

“No, but thank you, sir,” Harry declined. He'd no further appetite for special treatment.

“Actually, Harry, I think you might have a say.”

“Involving the sentencing, though?” He felt his eyebrow go up in the same way his octave had. 

“It is one thing that the high charges were dropped, but the charges in the petty courts would still see him imprisoned,” the man said under his breath as he escorted Harry down the hallway, close. He kept on a casual smile that did not match his tone, appearing to others that there was nothing but sunshine and nifflers being discussed between them. “When he’s in the petty courts, his name is out of the papers, true, but that also means they can be more severe with his punishments because interest will wane. They won’t want to release him back into society the longer he sits under house arrest in a guarded facility. I think it likely he could spend a decade in Azkaban.” 

“What are you getting at?” 

“Minerva and I spoke about the optics of suggesting Draco return to Hogwarts, which sets up the public to be reminded that, despite the stories and claims, whether any of them have validity or not, he _is_ just a school aged young man who was at the top of his class academically, not something one accomplishes if one is consumed by murder and evil. You see?” 

Harry did see. 

Kingsley left him as they walked into the sentencing room--chambers, really, with thick green velvet drapes and mustard yellow rugs. It was like diving deep into a mossy forest, and even smelled that way. Reminded him of a forest he did not want to think about at that moment, actually. He paced himself before walking in and joining a group of about six standing wizards--the sentencing committee for Draco’s case, as well as the Minister. 

“We can find space for him in Salute’s House until the frenzy has calmed. I’d say for at least seven months.” 

“That’s throwing him to the wolves--probably literally! He won’t make it out of there alive.” 

“Give it a rest, Frank. You already got what you wanted.” 

“ _Both_ of you can give it a rest,” Kingsley told them both as he sat down. “Rod is right. Salute’s House is our only option.” 

Harry rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, asking it what he was in for by agreeing to humor this, and then cleared his throat. They all turned to look at him. He leaned forward slightly with one hand out. He offered a fingertip when the silence went on a few seconds too long. He saw Kingsley quirk a smile, “As made evident in court, he values his education. Wouldn’t the best place for him be Hogwarts?” 

“Hogwarts would never accept him back. Hardly appropriate! Tell me we’re not going to consider this, Minister.” 

Kingsley considered Harry thoughtfully, as though he hadn’t already thought this through _at length_ , “If the whole board agreed, it would be an option. There would be stipulations, I’m sure. We will hold off on sentencing until we’ve had the chance to vet this option. Darius, please get the ball rolling. We will meet Thursday to discuss the sentencing. In the meantime, Mr. Malfoy will be escorted to Salute’s House. He will be placed in solitary.” The scribe was scribbling down everything rapidly. 

As he was leaving later, well after he’d found Maxius and discussed Professor Sprout’s request, Harry murmured something about Draco returning to Hogwarts to a reporter who was rushing alongside him for comments. It was just enough, too, because when he opened the Daily Prophet with reluctance the next morning, there in the second paragraph of the front page news about Draco’s trial, stated, “hearing from a reliable source that a Hogwarts return may be on the table for Mr. Malfoy.” And that was all he’d needed to read before he crinkled the paper up in his hands and tossed it into the common room fireplace. 

“If he really does come back, someone might toss you in there,” Seamus commented as he sipped on his morning tea with one outstretched pinky.

Harry felt his face crack, and he laughed as he stood, hands on his knees, “Not if I throw myself in first.” Before he leaned down to grab his bag with his left hand, he reached up with his right and bent his elbow, grabbing a handful of cotton at the nape of the back of his neck. He pretended to drag himself to the fireplace and gave a wry smile when they snickered. Satisfied, he grabbed his bag and went about his favorite new hobby: making himself scarce for the rest of the day.


	3. Small Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That railing does not deserve your trust.”
> 
> Draco put some weight against it with his forearms. Indeed, it seemed sturdy. 
> 
> “Uh, I, um, I know the bloke who worked on restoring it… wouldn’t trust his skills.” 
> 
> Something happened from Malfoy’s throat after a few moments. It wasn’t a laugh, but the realization had some amusement in it when he questioned, “You?” 

Late summer turned into early fall, then from early fall into the deep, dark autumn. It was dark at five in the evening, and Harry’s new pastime was definitely sitting off to the left of the fire, reading over any material he’d had in classes. This was new for him, but he found that not having classes all of the time like he had in the years earlier left him with free time… oh, and also he had nothing else preoccupying him, like Voldemort. Free time left him feeling somewhat bored, bored enough to actually pick up a book.

Over about three weeks time, he saw it starting to rub off on some of the younger year students who utilized the quiet studious nature in the evening when “Harry Potter was studying by the fire” to do the same. These little things became increasingly obvious to him, but he wasn’t sure just what to make of it all. He often remembered Professor McGonagall specifically telling him there was a weight in his words when he used them the right way. His example, too, maybe. 

It was all too responsible and adult-like, really, but he felt like he had openly turned a few pages in the last year of his life. He was trying to put that all into place now, trying to make sense of his life and the future. 

This night, in particular, as he sat by the window beside the fire, he glimpsed something bright moving in the moonlight. It was a head, he decided, and there was only one person he knew who had hair that could bounce the full moonlight back like that, a beacon calling out to a ship. He closed his Potions book on his lap and put his right foot down on the floor from where it was perched on the hearth.

It was Malfoy. 

They existed in separate worlds, both avoiding most everyone for their own reasons. Harry attended meals in the Great Hall, at least one of the two main meals, but Malfoy rarely ever did. He had been at Hogwarts a good month and a half now, and in that time the two of them had shared two conversations. One had been in McGonagall’s office the day Malfoy had been escorted there by a Ministry escort. After she had excused herself for a moment, they’d stood there in silence, a room apart, looking right at each other. 

There had been a “thank you,” but Harry hadn’t been able to formulate a response other than a nod. He was good at that, apparently. And anyway, it had caught him off guard, because in all of the chaos of the situation, he had never… thought to expect a thank you. 

The second interaction had been when they’d nearly collided while rounding a corner from opposite sides. Harry had just come from taking a long walk around the lake with Hermione and Neville, and had been happy and vibrant. As soon as they’d collided, it had been like Malfoy’s energy had physically depleted Harry’s happiness. 

There had been a shuffling of “I’ll go this way” and a point from Malfoy to state he was going left, but never any eye contact after the first glance of surprise. It was the closest that Harry had been to him in a long time, and he recalled having seen that the dark circles were no longer under his eyes. He had gained a little weight, but he walked with nothing of the swagger and confidence he once had. It was a change Harry had turned to take in, in something of a stupor, stunned that there had been no words further exchanged. 

“Chocolate frog?” 

Harry turned his head to Hermione who was holding out a hand. He went to turn it down as he put his other foot down on the floor and his Potions book down to his left. He took it, though, never in the mood to go without a chocolate frog when one was being offered, “Thanks, yes.” He grabbed his maroon jumper from the floor next to his shoes, sliding his feet into them as he peeled the foil off of his treat. He shoved it in his mouth as he stood. “I’ll be back in a bit.” 

She glanced over at the clock, so he did too. It was ten on the dot. 

“Well, I’m heading up to bed.” 

“Night, ‘mione.” He stopped for a moment to give her a one-armed hug. His palm squeezed around the end of her shoulder. 

“Don’t let Filch catch you.” 

“I’ll, um... take my chances,” he murmured under his breath, pushing out of the common room with his left shoulder while he threaded his right hand through the right arm of the cardigan. Mouth full of chocolate, shoes and sweater halfway on, he hurried down the steps. He kept his eyes out on the grounds from the windows along the stairwells. He could still see Malfoy and knew where he was going. At least, he suspected. 

It was cold outside, and Harry hissed, “ _Bloody,_ ” as he hugged himself over his sweater. His eyes drifted to the rustling treetops. He braced himself for the gust of wind, clenching his teeth together. Yep, so bloody cold. It chilled him to his bones, so he was more than happy to get where he was going, which was the attached watch tower next to the covered bridge. 

Stepping inside of the open stone frame provided immediate relief from the elements. It was a round porch of sorts, had a look-out just like the bridge did, and a separate door that led into the small, also-recently restored watch tower.

The moment settled first, and Harry gave them both a few seconds. He hadn’t been being particularly quiet, hadn’t been sneaking or spying. He had come specifically, seeking Malfoy out. He was standing with his back to Harry, looking out at the forest, his tall frame slouched forward with his elbows on the railing.

He turned his face to the left, giving Harry acknowledgment. 

Harry stood next to him with a good three feet between them, fixing his attention on the forest, as well. He had been in this very spot a few nights ago. He found himself here, or just walking the covered bridge often--but… he never walked fully to the other side. He thought of why, eyes faltering down to the railing and past it to his feet, and through the spindles down to the ground. 

“That railing does not deserve your trust.”

Draco put some weight against it with his forearms. Indeed, it _seemed_ sturdy. 

“Uh, I, um, I know the bloke who worked on restoring it… wouldn’t trust his skills.” 

Something happened from Malfoy’s throat after a few moments. It wasn’t a laugh, but the realization had some amusement in it when he questioned, “You?” 

“Won’t confirm or deny,” Harry returned, feeling relieved when Draco straightened his spine and pulled away from resting against the railing. He was looking at it with caution, then turned his attention to the right, turning away from Harry. He began to walk off, so Harry turned, too, and followed him out of the watch tower and onto the covered bridge.

“Eerily familiar,” with Harry following him. 

Harry had it in him to laugh, and when Malfoy looked back at him with bewilderment, which would have once been complete contempt, Harry tilted his head slightly to the left, putting his chin out because he got eye contact for the first time. He made a big deal about making his eyes bigger, knowing full well that Malfoy was probably coming to the conclusion that Harry was having some sort of mental break. His expression in return softened, though, and he openly shook his head at Harry as he walked another ten feet. 

He sat down on a bench. 

Harry stood across from him, on the opposite side of the bridge. He leaned against a post for support--one he knew someone else had restored!

“What is it?” 

Harry considered the question, and offered in truth, because it was the most surreal, raw moment, “I don’t know.” Why had he followed? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have anything he particularly wanted to say. He thumbed under his lip, contemplating the space between them. “Is it uncomfortable if I ask you how you’re doing?” 

“No.” 

They stared at each other a few moments, but at least there wasn’t judgment on either side. 

They’d really never had a civil conversation before. 

“I appreciate what you did. I tried to write you a letter, months ago.” 

Harry didn’t say anything back about it, looking down at his feet. 

Draco looked over, too, as if to see what was incredibly thought provoking about them. Slippers. 

As much as Harry tried to be better, as much nuance as he jokingly tried to tell Hermione he learned every single day, just to irritate her, suddenly his mind was blank. He really didn’t know how to process the moment or what to say. He didn’t even know how he felt about standing there, other than annoyed that one of his slippers had mud on its tip. He pointed his toe and scraped the mud off on the wood plank. 

“You haven’t been coming to meals.” 

The other young man, and Harry noticed that’s what he was, turned his head, and his hands came up to hold something in the air--maybe an idea--but nothing was there so he adjusted his hair, pulling his fingers back through it from the front, “I am keenly aware of the tension my being here causes. I try to stay out of sight, out of mind.” He looked down at his hands. They’d fallen open on his lap. “The gratitude I have to be here, I am only just beginning to be able to put into words.”

Harry decided against giving any unsolicited advice. He had none to give, anyway, and was thoughtful of Malfoy’s plight. He understood why he kept a distance, kept low key. Harry was much the same, just for different reasons, “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Harry was an open book, but Malfoy did not want to make eye contact. That was purposeful, he realized. He looked out and up at the full moon for guidance but found nothing. “I’m struggling to make sense of this.”

“ _This_ ,” Draco repeated, as if trying to understand what the definition of _this_ was. “What are you looking for?”

“Maybe peace, though... that takes time. Worrying about you avoiding the student body takes _away_ from the time I could be making peace with you.” He glanced over to see if his logic made sense to Draco. It did not appear to, so Harry sighed. “Just come eat once in awhile.” He blinked at the look on Malfoy’s face. “What?” 

Draco covered his eyes with a palm, as though distressed. But then… a laugh?

It was the weirdest, most out of body experience Harry could have anticipated. It was a good enough answer, he decided, and he let go of his cloudy expression. And when Malfoy finally braved a full look back at him, Harry forced an awkward smile. He was the worst at that, but he made the effort.

He turned and offered his right hand out, “Please.” 

Malfoy considered the palm before he decisively reached out his own and accepted it.

His hand was dry and cool, which made Harry ponder why his own was warm and balmy. Maybe Malfoy, too. 

A handshake, out in the dark at eleven under the covered bridge, sealed by a couple of dumb laughs and glassy eyes. Neither knew this version of the other, _let alone_ at eleven at night under the covered bridge and moonlight so bright it reflected back at each other and the moon. And they both sat on the bench for awhile, lost in their own thoughts, before Harry stood, teeth clenched to keep from clattering. He motioned Malfoy to come with him via a head tilt in the direction of the castle, and by some miracle they walked together, side by side, back up to the castle. 

In silence, true, _but_ they hadn’t verbally ripped the other to shreds, so… small victories. 

The next morning, Harry took his own advice and went down to breakfast about ten minutes late, trailing some of the younger years. He slowed at the bottom of the stairs, though, catching sight of a tall lean figure eyeing the open doors of the Great Hall. Aha, Malfoy. As he approached the Great Hall, he cleared his throat. 

Draco turned from observing a particularly interesting crack on the wall, though there was hesitation in asking for his attention. It was with dread that he took a test glance over. Upon seeing that it was Harry, whose hands were behind his back, slightly leaned forward, he turned the full way. He awkwardly grabbed the back of his neck with his hand, smoothing the long, shaggy hair there. 

“Did you eat yet?” 

“No.” Malfoy addressed the open doors with his eyes while students milled in and out. “It smells nice.” 

“Cinnamon rolls.” His own nose knew that smell by now. And he saw that Malfoy clearly knew it, as well. “Come on, then.” He turned and walked, leaving it up to the other boy to decide if he wanted to tag along. And hearing the footsteps behind him, Harry slowed his walk so they entered into the Great Hall together. And luckily, they weren’t really noticed. 

Harry turned, motioning Malfoy in front of him, to take a seat before anyone could notice. He did, sliding in abruptly next to Blaise who nearly choked on his sausage when he realized who it was.

“So glad you came to eat, mate,” Blaise told him, eagerly pulling the bowl of cinnamon rolls towards him, and then pushing them to Draco. “Pumpkin juice?” He sounded so optimistic, and Draco accepted graciously, though it was clear he was embarrassed and out of control of the situation. 

Harry plopped down on the bench next to him and went for the bowl of cinnamon rolls at the same time, breakfast business as usual. He beat Malfoy to the bowl and tore one off and handed it to him before taking his own. He pulled a piece off like the hungry man-boy he was and shoved it in his mouth. It was warm, flaky, full of air, and the frosting dripped down the side of his mouth. 

Once his appetite had begun to be sated, Harry noticed for the first time that their fellow eighth years were trying real hard to pretend it was totally a normal thing that he and Malfoy were sitting next to each other at breakfast, both concentrated on their food and, you know, not hexing each other. 

Neville quickly pulled his eyes away and looked up at the candles, and Harry couldn’t help but look up, too, with a smirk around his fork, “Floating candles, who knew?”

“Well, Harry,” Neville prefaced, lifting his eyebrows so his forehead wrinkled, “I reckon this is a new brand of candles. Uh huh.” 

“Sure, sure.” 

Harry stayed long enough to make sure Draco had thawed a bit, and he had, with Blaise’s help, and then left breakfast with Neville to meet McGonagall and Sprout. They had a meeting each week to discuss the progress being made on the plans to rebuild the Herbology greenhouses. They were also going to be adding a proper classroom and state of the art technologies that Neville had been researching and tracking down. And while Harry didn’t go every week, he had been requested this week because Maxius was arriving with his team to really go into detail about the architecture and plans. 

Maxius was there until around four, and he turned to Harry and Neville as they retreated from McGonagall’s office, “Can you leave the grounds, come down and join me, Tom, and Alice for dinner in the village? We want to try out that new pub, place across from Zonko’s.” 

Harry went to agree, but Neville cut him off, “Rain check for me.” 

“Shame, Neville. Next time, maybe?” Their hands fell apart from a shake was Neville backed away, as if remembering he had somewhere to be. “You, lad?” 

“Er, yeah,” Harry agreed. “Let me grab a coat. Neville, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Neville said, as he backed away. “Can you do me a favor and stop in at Dogweed and Deathcap and pick up what’s behind the register for me? You’ll save me a trip--but make sure it all gets here in one piece, please.”

“Sure,” Harry smiled, watching his friend fondly before he looked back to Maxius. 

“Half past six.” 

“Yeah, sounds good. See you.” 

Harry took his time venturing off to Hogsmeade through the tunnels, bundled in his coat, and eventually popped his head up and checked out the cellar of Honeydukes. No one was around, as expected. He knew he would need to walk back to Hogwarts on the way home, because Honeydukes would close by the time they finished at the pub. He snuck up, bought a bag of chocolate frogs and whatever was on sale at the counter, then walked around and down to the Herbology shop Neville had spoken of. 

Harry knew what it was, but he’d never been inside long enough to wander around. He took in the live plants and variety of jars up to the glass ceiling. It was a beautiful little shop, all kinds of gentle small lights, lamps and fairy, creating ambiance. It warmed some part of him he hadn’t realized was frigid. 

“Potter?” 

Harry turned on his heel, doing a double-take at the other occupant of the store, and he questioned in equal surprise, “Weird place to find you.” He motioned to the door. He hadn’t heard it open after him. He looked over towards the counter where a witch was ringing up an older woman. They were talking about tea.

“I’d… say the same."

Malfoy looked down at the plant in his hands, so Harry did too, “Leafy.” 

“Yeah. Real… leafy.”

Harry felt his eyes crinkle. He bent forward slightly to get a better look, “Er, what is it? And why does it have fur?” 

“Protective fibers. They call it a calming palm. It’s all the rage.” 

“ _Ah_ ,” Harry realized, and he suspected what he was picking up for Neville was the same thing. He followed Malfoy from just standing there and towards the register. He put the plant down on the counter, and the witch did a double-take at him. His head stayed down nearly the entire time. She was peering intensely as she told him it would be sixteen galleons. 

“Sixteen galleons for that little plant?” Harry boggled, and her attention switched to him. Her jaw dropped. His did, too, but because of the price of the plant. Lucrative business, plant selling! He closed his mouth, though, and offered his increasingly normal close-lipped, tight smile. 

Malfoy handed over sixteen galleons while she looked back and forth between them in a mostly subtle way. Malfoy didn’t notice at all. He was too busy examining the floor while he waited on his change. She handed it over, and then looked to Harry. 

“Pickup for Neville Longbottom,” and she went searching in a room behind the counter. It was enough time for Harry to turn and get in a word before Malfoy could fully push with his shoulder out the door and exit. “I know Maxius Montgomery did work on Malfoy Manor, spoke nicely of you. I’m meeting him at six-thirty for a bite if you want to join.” 

Malfoy finally looked up from the floor. 

Harry didn’t pretend anything, watching his reaction, then offered, “Come have dinner, Malfoy,” but in return was total startled silence. Deer in headlights, wasn’t that the saying? That was definitely the expression coming back at Harry. He lifted a hand, waving it up and down, and asked out of the corner of his mouth, “ _Hello_?”

“Pity will kill me."

“It’s only a bite.”

Malfoy stepped out, the door closing behind him, at which time the worker returned to the counter with Neville’s plant. Indeed, in her hands was a calming palm. She informed Harry that Neville had already paid, so he thanked her and bolted out the door. He caught up the ten feet, falling into step with the blonde who had walked alongside the buildings instead of out in the center of the road. Keeping to the shadows and whatnot...

The pub was in this direction, so when they neared it, Harry motioned him to come along with little other attention. They had happened to be in the same shop on the same evening, and it was dinnertime, so why not?

The pub was, indeed, new. The inside was furbished nicely, velvet cushions and new tables. There were some cool dark posters on the walls and faint lighting, too.

“There.” 

He turned, hearing Malfoy’s voice, and followed his eyes to a table in a corner. It was dark over there, and boisterous. He turned and walked, then looked and saw that Malfoy was asking the waitress if she just had a table for one. _Really_? Fine. Harry would never force anyone to do anything, and instead of making a comment, he used all his might at the end of a long day to bite his tongue. He went over towards Maxius and the others, shook hands, took off his coat, and settled down into the booth that also had a view of the bar. 

For the most part, Harry forgot Malfoy was there and enjoyed his dinner. However, when the others got up to go outside for a “puff,” Harry told Maxius that Draco was there. The man twisted in the direction Harry looked.

“He didn’t want to come say hello?” 

“I wouldn’t take offense. He avoids everyone.” 

“But I know the lad. Let me go over. I’ll be back.” 

“Good luck,” Harry offered--maybe genuinely--and watched Maxius head over to engage Draco. 

The others returned from their smoke, and about five minutes later, over came Maxius with a coaxed Malfoy. The skill! So Harry was quick to make room for him on his side of the booth while Maxius explained to the stunned others at the table his past working on Malfoy manor with his father, that he had met Draco when he was “but a boy.”

The way Maxius approached it was beautiful, just slid right on by the shock of Draco Malfoy now sitting at their table and tried to get them to realize he was just human, after all. Harry admired that.

“Got myself a Potter and a Malfoy at my table,” Maxius beamed. “Architecture, merging together all sorts.” 

“I never figured myself to be a _sort_ ,” Harry looked at Malfoy to see if he’d had the same reaction. He hadn’t, but he did seem eased by the light comment. “You’re a sort.”

“Yer equally some sorts,” Maxius told them both, and Malfoy smiled into his mug the smallest of bits. “Draco, did you eat? 

“I did.” 

“Good. Whatever else you want, put on my tab. Lads, I’m off for a gentlemanly evening with a nice lady.” And five minutes later, six dwindled down to two eighteen year olds sitting awkwardly together at the end of a large booth in the dimness of the corner. But it had quieted quite a bit in the pub, a relaxed crowd. It was nice, and Harry, yes, having had a shot of fire-whiskey and an alcoholic Butterbeer, felt relaxed enough to just sit there without making anything of it. He was getting better at that. 

The waitress came and cleaned up their table. 

“No need to hurry out,” she told them. “Can I get you boys another round?” 

Harry waited for Malfoy to make the decision. His light eyes sunk into his nearly empty mug, then gave the waitress just a solemn nod. Yeah, sounded about right.

“Calming palm,” Harry finally spoke, observing the two small plants in the center of the table. “Does it have magical properties or is it a normal healing botanical?” He leaned in and lowered his chin near to the distressed wood surface to focus in on the fibers. They were beautiful, fascinating little plants.

“There’s a gel inside of the leaves, aloe-adjacent. They say it’s good to add a leaf to tea, calms nerves.” 

“I haven’t been sleeping well. Do you think it would help?” 

Draco was surprised by the candor, “That is what it’s for.” 

Harry rotated one of the plants with a fingertip, lazily turning it to get a glimpse of the only small yellow bud on the cusp of blooming, “Have you tried it before?” 

“Sleep? No, never.”

Harry, caught off guard by the well-delivered deadpan reply, maybe because of the whiskey and butterbeer, or maybe just because he was unnerved by having a run in with something that resembled a personality, bawked, “The _plant_.” 

Yeah, yeah, “I’ve not, no. Surely Longbottom wouldn’t mind if you took a cutting from his.” 

“He seemed particular about getting it back to him as soon as possible. He probably wouldn’t be happy if it came back without one of its, er... arms.” 

“Arms?” 

“You know,” Harry lightly touched the tip of his finger to the tip of the pointy end. “This.”

“ _Arms_?”

Harry’s head tilted back, and he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, “Come off it. Do they not look like arms?”

“I mean… no.”

Harry protested somehow.

Malfoy tried his very best to hide his amusement, nearly choking on the words to keep from laughing while he desperately searched the pub for anyone but Harry in order to keep it together, “Seven years of Herbology lessons...”

Upon seeing the optimistic glint in Malfoy’s constantly-avoidant eyes, Harry bit into his bottom lip with conviction and diverted his own to try to reassess how to reply. In the moment, he recognized how quickly he had become defensive, and it alarmed him. It really didn’t serve either of them for him to do that anymore. Wasn’t he trying to be better than that?

He struggled with how to reply, though, so he didn’t. He still considered it a win.

“I started to write you a letter.”

“You told me that,” Harry remembered as he followed Malfoy out the door and into a gust of cold air a few minutes later. He held the door open for two little witches, and when he turned to catch up with Malfoy, he was surprised momentarily to find him waiting. His white knuckled hands were holding the ends of both sides of the muted green scarf that hung from around his neck whereas Harry was holding both calming palms. He handed one over.

“A new letter.”

“Will I actually get this one?” And when there wasn’t a clear answer in the silence either, he tried to level the set and dialed back the influence of the butterbeer. “If I do, I’ll look forward to reading it.”

He had no idea how to communicate effectively here.

“You don’t have to read it. I would just like you to accept it.”

“I can do that.” _There_. “How are things in your house with the younger years?”

“First and second years run the other way when they see me, barring maybe one or two.”

“Hmm, well how do you know what they’re doing when you’re always looking at your shoes?”

Malfoy didn’t know what to say.

“I noticed, is all,” Harry lightly explained, off-the-cuff. “Are you graduating early?”

“No.”

These were scintillating conversations.

Harry widened his eyes to himself off to the left as they passed a shop to express his thoughts. He saw them in the dimpled glass reflecting back. To see Malfoy walking beside him, purposefully so, was eye-opening. He felt a scratch in his throat, turning his head away and furrowing his eyebrows. He was being too hard on the situation. Why did he expect them to be able to have a conversation casually about _anything_? He tried his best to not push anyone, anyway, so why was this different?

He led the way to Honeydukes because it was early enough that they'd still be open, and Malfoy knew exactly where they were going enough to turn right before Harry did. Coming onto the main alley put them back on the lane with passersby. There were not many of them, but enough for Harry to notice the stark reaction of folks first spotting Malfoy’s white head in the night, recognizing him, and then having a conflicting reaction IF they also noticed it was Harry walking beside him.

The look on one witch’s face as she looked from Malfoy to Harry would always stick with him, he was sure, because it was so sharp he nearly felt it in his gut. He suddenly understood why Malfoy walked with his attention down on the ground. And that was, okay, his own doing, but it was still such an ugly thing, to exist in the public’s mind as, essentially, a death eater who had been freed. That was not something Malfoy could shake off of him because it was everyone else that held the view. It was not something anyone could fix for him and nothing he could control.

Malfoy was too busy concentrating on the ground and the shadows that were made of his swishing robes and the toes of his wingtips to have noticed the witch’s expression, which was something of a relief to Harry. Then again, Harry suspected the other boy had seen plenty of those looks… and had decided to stop looking at anyone at all.

“You’d be furious if you knew how much pity I felt for you right now.”

Malfoy side-eyed him as they peeked in the back window of the shop to check that there was no one in there at the moment, “Thoughtful of you to tell me so.”

“Had to, couldn’t not. I tried to repress it.”

Harry brightly returned his attention.

Draco managed a near-return to months prior, his tone shifting, but instead of a hot quick reply came a measured, “Okay.”

OKAY?

Harry spelled the door open, leaning against the doorframe, and waited for Malfoy to go in first. He stayed against the doorframe a moment, observing the other like he might a wild bird. At least he was now standing at his full height, no longer walking with his shoulders down like he had been doing at school.

Harry closed the door behind them, locked it back up, and followed Malfoy down into the basement and back through the tunnels with their wands lit to guide them.

The drip drip drip of the water as they came closer to and moved further from puddles became embarrassingly tense for Harry. He turned his head over his shoulder a handful of times, though he knew Draco was still there because his footsteps were just feet behind. He looked back at Harry each time, questioning what he wanted.

Nothing.

By the time they were back in the castle, not a word had been spoken except that time Harry collided with a spiderweb, but… those hadn’t been words, more-so throat gargling and panic.

In the corridor back in the castle, where it was still cold but not freezing, Harry turned away to leave. When he took a breath, it felt like the first one he had taken in an hour. He even grasped under his ribcage.

“Stop.”

Who? Him? He did, turned halfway to look over at the archway where Malfoy stood with his palms facing forward at his sides. This exasperated miserable plea, just out of nowhere… the expression one Harry had never seen and barely wanted to even attribute to Malfoy. Vulnerability? Pain?

“... stop?”

“ _Stop_.”

Harry tried to read the context, because if he hadn’t known better he would have assumed he’d been dropped in a time slip without any idea how he’d gotten there. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed his temple with his palm. It slipped down over the warm skin, molding over his cheekbone and down along his jaw, and his fingers lastly pulled down his face. He gave his agreement to _stop_ without looking back again, “Whatever, goodnight.”

He was in a bizarre mood by the time he got back to the common room, thought he’d figured out what he had been asked to stop. To stop… _trying_?

However, in typical nuanced Harry fashion, which he laughed about under his breath, he challenged himself to _try_ to understand where Malfoy was coming from

“My calming palm. Isn’t it beautiful?” Neville asked, once Harry entered, and took the plant from his hands lovingly.

“Sure,” Harry laughed, and when Neville looked at him like he was an uncultured swine, all Harry did was give a good natured shrug. He pulled his scarf off and hung it over the barrier around the heater in the center of the circular room. “Sixteen galleons for that, Neville?”

“It’s because it grows abundantly. This one plant will grow like a monster, watch!”

“I heard you can put the leaves in tea for a calming effect. Could I try one sometime?”

Neville paused, then put the plant down on his desk between their beds, “Of course, but not until it blooms. If you pick off anything before that, you doom the whole plant.” He leaned down to peer at it importantly.

“Not sure I’ve ever looked so lovingly in anything in my entire life as you look at that plant.”

“Ginny?”

“Touche,” Harry laughed, pulling his sweater off over his head. “Ginny. Ah, Ginny.”

“Hey now,” Seamus commented, looking over from studying on his bed. He lowered his glasses in Harry’s direction. “Calm down, boy.”

“Whoa boy,” Neville agreed, and Seamus wiggled his brows.

Harry sat down on the end of his bed with a lopsided smile, leaning down over his left knee to untie his shoe. His feet were freezing underneath them, and if he had had more energy, he would have headed to get a hot shower and drown himself beneath the heat to erase the weird evening, “I _barely_ see her.”

“I see her plenty.”

“Don’t be surprised if your glasses go missing, Finnegan.”

“I have a spare pair.”

“You talk a lot of smack for someone who values his eyesight so much.”

Seamus flicked a chocolate frog wrapper at Harry from across the room. He dodged it and pretended to toss his shoe across the room in return. He focused on his other one, though, and pulled it off.

“You’re going out, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry glanced up. “Poor girl.”

“Ha!”

“Wish I could say I was kidding,” Harry leaned down over the heater barrier with his arms, taking in the heat and also a better view of Seamus who sat up and came closer for a chat. “I barely spoke to _anyone_ over the summer. She sent me so many owls, and I’m me, so I’d respond with, like… five words. Can’t say I’ve been much better since.”

“She knows you well enough to have probably expected that.”

“Yeah, true. I guess.”

“And what does she think of Nuanced Harry? And did you get that trademarked yet?”

“Wait a second, you’ve heard someone actually call me that?” He groaned and held his forehead once again that night, mostly because the butterbeer was making itself known. His hand came down, picturing the culprit in his mind, though he knew she had meant it in a positive way. “Hermione. Yep, I’ll destroy her.” 

“Yeah, okay, _Harry Potter_ ,” Seamus smirked. “Good luck.”

Harry lifted his hand up and wiggled his fingers to give him a wave of goodnight, ending it with his middle finger.

“So sweet you are, oh _so_ nuanced,” Seamus teased in return, blowing him a kiss. “Sweet Ginny dreams.”

“And he knows them well enough to wish them.”

“Are you trying to get me killed, Neville?!”

Harry just laughed at them both as he climbed into bed, “The only dreams I’ve been having lately center around our Potions final.”

“That’s sad, mate, and I dream about _plants_ ,” Neville joked.

“Ouch.”

“Ginny needs to step up her game, then. I’ll speak with her on your behalf, Potter.”

“Do it, and you _will_ die.”

“Why is he always threatening me?” Seamus asked Neville conversationally.

“I’d take caution.”

“I could take him.”

“Good _night_ ,” Harry snorted, then spelled his curtains closed. He found himself chuckling, though, with a warm face. He really sometimes enjoyed talking with Seamus and Neville. They played off of each other really well, and the atmosphere was always light and friendly. It was nice to have them here. He missed Ron terribly, he truly did, but was more than grateful Seamus and Neville were there to help ease the daily woes and vice versa.

He woke up at two, four, and finally at five he rose, changed, and went for a run around the castle while it was empty, racing down corridors and causing chaos while waking up sleeping portraits. He was angrily shouted out for at least twenty minutes, giving him enough of an adrenaline boost to keep going. He finally settled on running up and down the main corridor steps. Once. Twice. Twelve times. At the bottom, he lastly put his feet down on the ground and lowered himself onto the step. He wiped his sweat off his lower face with the neck of his t-shirt, heavily breathing, and looked around at the vast empty space.

The concept was all too familiar.


	4. The Letter

On the platform at Kings Cross on December twenty-first, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny sat or stood around a bench, sipping on coffees or tea. The train had been early, and they had been waiting on a very special pick-up, which was Ron and a drive to the Burrow. And Harry was completely looking forward to it. It was hard to break anyone’s spirit, it seemed, lately. The holidays were a good time, time for everyone to go back to their families and reassess how things were going.

On the way out with Ron not much later, Harry heard his name being called. He turned, finding Blaise cutting between two families with his coat flapping as he lifted an arm to wave hello with something in his hand. Harry approached.

“Almost forgot to give this to you.”

It was an envelope, and Harry accepted it. He twirled it around in his fingers to look at the front, but there was nothing written on it.

“From Draco,” Blaise explained.

“ _Oh_.” _The_ letter. “Thanks. He… didn’t want to give it to me?”

“He left for home Thursday night after McGonagall gave her blessings for early leave. Totally slipped my mind until I just saw you. Hey, have a nice break?”

“You too, Blaise. Er, thanks. Nice of you.”

“That’s my guy,” Blaise told him of Malfoy, explaining this errand as though he’d needed to.

“You say that like he’s an... endearing person.”

“Like fifty percent, which is eleven more percent than he was at this time last year. Progress, Potter, and don’t you forget it.”

Harry gave a stupidly genuine laugh and rubbed his jaw after they shook hands and Blaise took back off, grabbing his bag and trunk a few feet away and joining up with his brother. It looked like they were probably waiting on their parents, now finding solace in the bench Harry, Hermione, and Ginny had vacated.

“What’s that?” Ginny asked, as he returned.

“Um, a, uh, a letter?” He leaned down, unzipped his canvas bag, tucked it safely into a pocket, then zipped it back up quickly, as though it would escape. He stared down at the bag, then, and the view of his feet. He felt so surprised by it, that a letter had not only been written but now delivered. He struggled, in the moment, with whether or not he’d actually read it.

“Don’t be an idiot, of course you could tell me. And of course you’ll read it,” Ron told him later as they conspired over it in front of the wood burning stove at the Burrow. “Reckon I could read it when you’re done?”

“Need kindling?” He glanced at the fire.

Ron’s face lit up as he tugged the bottom of his sweater down and crossed his arms over his chest, “I’ve heard all kinds of insane details about him at the Ministry.” He was in training to be an auror, and from what Harry understood, Ron was excelling and was at the top of his mentorship class. He never had put thought into it prior, but having Ron start ahead of him at the Ministry had probably been the best thing for them.

Harry tried not to let it show that he was proud, seeing the confidence that had been blooming in his best friend over the years really find footing. He wasn’t cocky, just… knew who he was, knew he could handle what came at him.

“Don’t tell me.”

“Some are worth a good laugh when you need one. I’ve been tempted to write them down so I don’t forget ‘em.” He covered his eyes with a hand, as if recalling a particularly memorable one. “ _Shiiiit_.”

“That good, huh?” He was tempted but held up a hand that Ron pushed down. “No! Don’t tell me!”

“Breakfast, gossip girls,” Hermione told them, coming out to see what was keeping them and finding them play fighting, just in time to see Ron’s loose fist slow-motion colliding with Harry’s cheek. Harry turned in slow motion, too, as if from the force of it. “Will never understand boys…”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ron told her, righting himself,, and he put his hands on her shoulders in a gentle way and led her back into the kitchen. Harry saw him give the lightest of squeezes on both of her shoulders before he let go. He followed her to one of the mixed and matched chairs stuffed around the table, made sure she was seated, before he sat beside her. 

Harry felt warm, having a moment to himself in the living room, grateful for them. He was happy they had each other. He held his face with both hands, told himself to get a grip, then walked into the kitchen just in time to be promptly elbowed by Ginny for being late, and he coughed a laugh and grasped his stomach with both arms, “Yep, yep, seems about right!”

“That’s what you get!”

“A little tenderness, sis, huh? Let the man breathe!” Ron protested her actions. “Mate, come sit by me. Ginevra can sit by herself and think about what she’s done.” And Harry leaned against Ron’s chair from behind, arms crossed on it, and looked challengingly at an amused Ginny from across the table, as if to tell her that Ron had TOLD her. She fixed a stare at Ron who then digressed and turned to look up at Harry. “I tried.”

“I’ll remember this,” Harry told him, but walked around the table, with a smile, and sat next to Ginny. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Is your dad still looking uncomfortably at us?”

Ginny looked past Harry to Arthur while the table laughed, then confirmed, “It appears so.”

Harry flinched, but it lightened the mood all the more.

“To our family,” Arthur then toasted with his orange juice, and a chorus of clinking glasses and “our family,” sounded loudly and with conviction. It was such a good breakfast, and breakfast turned into lunch, somehow, and before Harry knew it, he was sitting between his two greatest friends, toasted on warm butterbeer, doubled over in laughter about anything and everything. But alas, they finally calmed. It was such a nice evening, and the room was now empty except the three of them. He decided to vacate, as well, to give them some time alone in front of the fire.

“Behave,” he told them sternly from the archway into the kitchen, and they both laughed.

He said goodnight, took his leave and went up the stairs to Ron’s room. It looked different than it once had, some of the dorky posters from Witch Weekly were gone and now replaced with cooler things. Ron was still living at the Burrow while he got on his feet, and it made Harry think about his future, as well. He wouldn’t have a Burrow to take comfort in. He thought of 12 Grimmauld Place, and he thought of his parent’s home in Godric’s Hollow. Neither of those places were particularly happy places, as things stood. Neither was a place he had made his own.

Harry sat down on his mattress with a worn green quilt and rummaged through his worn canvas bag until an envelope was in hand. He pulled out a single trifolded letter and unfolded it carefully as he rested his head down on the pillow. He wouldn’t have put it past Malfoy to write with invisible ink or simply give him a blank letter to represent their interactions since that night back in November.

When they saw each other now, they didn’t even say hello. They didn’t even acknowledge each other, all because of Malfoy’s one-word request to “stop.” But still, Harry could tell that Malfoy was relieved to not be expected to owe him conversation, like when he handed him over the attendance sheet in Potions from an aisle away without any awkwardness or passed Harry the pumpkin juice from down the table. There was comfort in that.

“Here we go,” he quietly informed the four walls of the room as he focused on the slanted black printed letters.

_I’ve written and rewritten this letter. The takeaway, always, is that I owe you my life, freedom, and future. The little things that make life worth living, I now experience knowing I was given a rare second chance to do so. I did not deserve it, and we both know that. I will not waste the chance, though, or your good will._

_Everyday is a struggle to justify my existence and worth, and even your intentions, so this letter does not come to you from a place of grace or composure quite yet. It is, however, with eternal gratitude that I thank you for doing what you did, and frustratingly. To be on the end of a gracious act of mercy by a great man has made me resolve to be a better one._

_Thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco_

Harry read it a couple of times, fingers ghosting behind the thin parchment like shadows on a wall. He hadn’t had any expectations of what the letter would or would not be and knew better than to think any of it phony or forced. Such a letter was so private Harry almost felt embarrassed to not have already slipped it back into his bag and hidden it away.

He wouldn’t reply at all, because, he remembered, all he had been asked to do was accept this letter. It wasn’t up for him to tell Malfoy what to think or feel. He turned on his mattress and placed the letter back in his bag in its envelope, then settled in to sleep… or tried, but there was some part of him that was deeply disturbed enough to prevent it.

By the next morning, he had drafted a letter in return and sent it off by owl before he could be bothered to rethink it.

_I feel I owe my life to someone, too, you see. I knew what her intentions were. You. Know my testimony was in response to that (and overlook it so you keep thinking I am a great man, hah). There was nothing else behind it._

_If I can use this time to ask one thing of you, though, it’s the same thing I ask of myself. Learn to forgive? Forgive others, forgive yourself. I’m not sure there’s any other way out of this for either of us. We can’t change the past. But anyway, this all takes time._

_Mostly people are far too concerned with their own lives to be concerned with yours. The public has moved on to the next headline. Let yourself do the same._

_Best,_

_Harry_

Christmas morning, the same owl was stomping impatiently on the perch outside of the window over the kitchen sink. Molly leaned out the window and scolded it while taking the letter from its talon. She gave it a bit of bacon, it ruffled its feather, and flew off, “Such an impatient creature.” She unrolled the parchment. “It’s for you, Harry dear.”

“No envelope? What’s it say?” Ginny asked.

Harry had a mouth full, so he could only make a noise of protest as he stood without spewing eggs everywhere.

“Thanks,” Molly read. It was so short, and they all looked at Harry questioningly.

“That’s all it says?” Harry was the one who inquired, taking it from her politely and unrolling it further.

_Harry,_

_Thanks._

_Have a nice holiday._

“You have an admirer, it seems?”

“Not how I’d describe it,” Harry assured Hermione, but he had felt an odd wave of relief begin to wash over him. This small exchange of letters really changed something already, offering a semblance of peace. Was this the beginning of finding even, neutral ground between them? He was not surprised to find himself hoping so.

“Poor bird flew just to deliver that? No wonder it was pissed,” Ron mumbled, and he took the letter from Harry’s light grip on it. He saw the words, the right-slanted script, and then looked up at Harry knowingly. He handed it back over with a silent understanding of who it was from. “Has hell frozen over?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“More-so a miracle,” Ron reconsidered and eyed Harry thoughtfully as he still stood there by the window with the parchment unrolled between his hands, peering down at it as if searching for further meaning. “You’d replied?”

“Yeah.”

“A man of so many words,” Ginny smiled, arms folded on the table as she leaned forward. “Who is our lucky correspondent, then?”

“Draco.”

“Draco? Draco Malfoy?” Similar questions arose, loudest of all being Hermione. She looked at Ron suspiciously, because clearly he hadn’t been surprised. After all, Harry had only shown the letter to Ron. It was clear why, but Harry hadn’t purposely gone out of his way to keep it from her. He knew this all stirred up uncomfortable feelings for her. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied once more, rolling the parchment back up, and he imitated them innocently, “Draco _Malfoy_.” And Ron “ooohed” for good measure.

“Now you’re exchanging friendly letters. _Merlin,_ you’ve gone _too_ _far."_

“It’s Christmas, Hermione! Come off it,” Harry sighed at her teasing, though there was no malice in any of it. He sobered. “Feels quite like... a really nice thing to end this year with, actually.” He sat back down and put the parchment on the table next to his plate. He’d heard himself, nearly objectively, and did wonder... who was speaking? Yeah, it was him! He was sounding like an adult, maybe? Sounding… rational? About Malfoy?

He even peeked at Ron to see if he’d noticed or see if he was perturbed.

Ron was trying not to laugh, mouth full of croissant, and then he and Ginny cracked. Ron reached over and gave Harry a light push to his upper arm with his palm in a way to say that he wasn’t laughing at him. His peaked cheeks were red, “Hermione kept joking about “nuanced Harry Potter,” and I said _what_? Get a grip. But it’s real! Blimey, what a sweetheart.”

Harry was affronted, “No, come on. It’s not nuanced Harry. It’s… just Harry.” He felt like an idiot trying to explain himself! “Er, just me.”

“Meant it only in the best way, mate,” Ron told him, then. “The highest praise.”

“Leave me alone,” Harry decided to tell them all. “Can you just pass me the eggs?”

A couple of minutes later, Ginny’s fingers fell upon his thigh. He was still getting used to that--to touch, to intimacy. He tried not to let his ears burn, tried to play it cool until she leaned in from beside him and whispered, “Do you want to take a walk in the field after breakfast?”

Harry agreed wordlessly, glad for the excuse of food in his mouth. He almost forgot about it by the time he was following Ron towards one of the den windows to take a look at a hawk he was pointing at. It was a giant hawk, just chilling on the fence and staring at the Burrow, and Ron said, “Never seen one like this before. Dad, check it out.”

As Arthur came over, Ginny peeked out from around the door archway.

Harry pulled his weight away from the wall, remembering, and excused himself. He followed back into the kitchen and into the small mudroom. As she already had on her boots and coat, he found his own coat and grabbed a pair of boots that seemed the right size. He had no idea whose they were, but he wasn’t sure any of the Weasley men knew either. He’d seen them all share enough clothing items by now to know it didn’t truly matter.

“So,” she said when they were outside, after Harry had opened his palm for hers. She put it in, “it’s nice to get some time alone. It’s been hard.”

“It’s a busy year for you, 7th.”

“That, too.” And they walked for a few moments. “Harry, has something changed?”

Everything had changed, but he knew she meant if something had changed between them, and truthfully answered, “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry for being distracted, I know things have been… slow.” He glanced at her to see if what he was saying was her impression too.

Her light rounded eyebrows lifted, “Are you still interested?”

“Yes--yes, of course,” he stuttered by default, and he paused just slightly to both question his reaction and give her more attention. She stopped, as well, finally, and came back to him the couple of feet with their hands still held. She took his hand with her other one, as well, and came in close with lowered eyes. His own gazed over her light eyelashes. “It’s not you. You are,” and as much as he tried to be more emotionally mature, he was romantically… a novice. He had no idea how to say how he felt, “a great girl.”

“A great girl. Thanks, friend.”

“Ah,” he laughed through his grimace. She was teasing him, giving him a break, “are you sure _you’re_ interested in someone seemingly romantically hopeless? Apologies ahead of time.”

“You know,” she told him, after staring up at him a few moments with a brightened expression, “I don’t mind if you’re slow, as long as you keep being quite so self aware.”

“Oh yeah?” He quirked a smile despite himself, feeling his face burn.

“Nuanced Harry wins again.”

“Wish I would have met him sooner,” he thoughtfully returned, and he genuinely pondered on it a moment while he took her other hand. He pulled her close, with a laugh, though, and tilted his head down and to the right for a quick peck. And it was quick. Before he could sink into it, or let her, he pulled his head up straight. He hesitated a moment, looking down at her closed eyes. He wasn’t sure what it was he was thinking, but as soon as her eyes began to open, he did his best to fix his expression.

“How slow are going, exactly?” He inquired. “Comparatively,” to her other relationships.

“Slow,” she assured, as her left eyebrow perked in a perfect circle. “Is it me?”

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally looking away from her and down to their hands between them. “Can’t believe I’m going to say this.” He squeezed her hands as if to prepare her, considering how pale her hands were. They were beautiful, soft, feminine. Her nails were painted a perfect poppy red. “You’re perfect. I, er, don’t anticipate me moving much faster anytime soon, though.”

“But why?”

“It’s just me. I’m not in that... I don't know, headspace?”

“What headspace is that?”

“See, I don’t want you to ever have to look looking at me like a complicated spell...”

“You are a complicated spell. I don’t mind waiting. I just want to make sure this is going somewhere. Is it?”

“Yes,” he was quick to say by default again, but then his throat did something as if to say “but,” and she sort of began to pull her hands down and away. He loosened his grip and let her pull away if she wanted to. Only one hand left his, and it was to run her fingers back through her hair. He watched her, wordlessly, watched her eyes search from his left to his right as if to ask what it was she was missing. Nothing. “I’m not… ready to date seriously, and I can’t give you a date that I will be.”

“You don’t have to be ready for it,” she tried to explain. “You’re putting too much pressure on it.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, staring at her distress, “but it is fair to you?”

“I can make that decision.”

“Okay, and I am happy for that,” he told her, taking her hand again and getting her to look at him, moving into her line of vision with his face so she would give him her attention. “I really like you, and I am happy to be with you. If this becomes too slow for you, though… tell me.”

“It’s too slow.”

Harry laughed, having asked for that, and he squeezed his eyes closed with a full open smile. When he did open his eyes, she was back to smiling at him in that way, though there was something else behind it now, “Should I feel you up in a closet every day or two?”

“Wow,” she laughed and covered her eyes with a hand. “Actually, yeah!”

“That backfired,” he joked, and he kissed her forehead. “Thanks for not thinking I’m a broken boy.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed her, his cheek resting briefly against the top of her head while he peered up and over at the trees in the distance. The hug felt somewhat different than others had felt. He did really like her, thought highly of her, and admired her, but all too suddenly with his arms around her shoulders, he felt more like a brother putting his sister at ease… but never having had a sister, exactly, at the very moment he wasn’t sure if that’s what it was.

They finished their walk, hand in hand, and found their way back to the Burrow.

When she went yelling after Ron about something, he stood in the foyer in his coat and someone else’s boots, surveying the scene while absentmindedly pulling the scarf from around his neck. As much as this place felt like his home in some way, he knew he needed to figure out what home meant for him if it wasn’t with the Weasleys. It wasn’t fair to Ginny for him to always be hanging around if he was seeking distance.

In the kitchen, later, Harry put on a pot of tea and stood back against one of the counters as he waited for it to boil. He wrapped his arms over his chest and bent his knee, foot on the wood cabinet behind him. His thighs were aching for a run, or maybe it was his mind that was craving escape. He was tired of thinking. All day, he’d been stuck in his own head which was exactly why he had begun to run in the first place.

“Mate,” Ron said, as he came in, dropping down a magazine on the table. He saw the tea kettle and went to one of the shelves and pulled down two mugs. He came over and handed one to Harry. “All right?”

“Yeah, fine. How about you?” His left hand came up, and he grabbed Ron’s shoulder, then cupped the side of his neck lightly. It was a quiet moment, just the two of them, and Harry truly missed him. The affection was accepted without question, and Harry’s hand dropped away to accept the mug.

“Exhausted,” Ron told him, settling back against the counter, too, and peering alongside Harry at the view out the windows over the stove. He inhaled a deep breath, relaxing. “Come back more.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, sharing the sentiments of missing Ron, too. “I actually, uh, guess I should probably start trying to figure out where to stay when the year is over.”

“You know you’re always welcome here.”

“I know, but.”

“No _but_.”

“There is a but. This is Ginny’s home, too.” He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say, but he knew he had to be careful. He tried to find the words, then looked back out the window as he tilted his head. His lips were open but nothing came out just yet.

“You’re already family.”

“... now.”

Ron considered, too, though he’d opened his mouth to reply. He took in the expression, Harry’s stance, “I thought things were going well.”

“They were.” He corrected himself. “They _are_.” But again, only for now. He gave a soft chuckle when Ron did. This huge wave of relief washed over him at the way Ron took the non-news. He turned to Harry, then, and opened his right arm. He came in, and Harry returned a light one-armed hug silently. And when they released, he considered Ron’s face, equal with his own. “You doing all right, mate? You can talk to me.”

“Yeah,” Ron told him, genuinely, seeing Harry’s concern. “Yeah, I am. I’m feeling good. Most days I come home convinced I’m hopeless.” Harry stayed watching him, didn’t offer unsolicited advice. He never did. All Harry did was listen. And that was what friends did. “But I’m getting through, you know?”

Harry nodded, head turning when the kettle started to sing. He slid a foot forward, closing in on the stove, turned off the coil, and removed it from the burner. He pulled it off the stove by the handle while Ron grabbed the mugs and headed over to the table, swiping the tin of tea from the counter while he went.

“What do we have?” Ron asked, as the tin came open.

“Cinnamon, earl gray… breakfast… peppermint,” Harry said, and before Ron could ask, Harry had already pushed it in his direction. “Think I’ll go for a chai.”

“That’s mum’s favorite, mate.”

Harry considered Molly’s wrath. He looked up at Ron who cracked up as Harry sided on the side of peppermint too, dropping the bag back into the correct section tin like it was cursed, “Good call.” He put the lid back on the tin as they settled into the mismatched chairs. “When do you have to be back at the Ministry?”

“We get the week off until after the New Year, so what’s that?” He calculated in his head, looking up at the ceiling. “Tuesday. I heard Zabini put in an application for the new Auror class.”

“Oh yeah? He is graduating when ‘mione does, makes sense.”

“You going to put yours in soon?”

Harry finished setting his tea set to steep, “Yeah.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“Ha.” Harry’s hand on the table squeezed. “You know… I’m not sure I want to.”

“Want to what?”

“Put in an application--and not just until the summer,” he saw where Ron’s questioning was going. “At all.”

His friend sat up totally straight and leaned in with his shoulders, “What are you saying?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Harry prefaced, “but I’ve been thinking about the Department of Architecture.”

“What! Harry, mate…”

“I-I don’t know.” Like that, he crumbled under the pressure of expectation, and pathetically. “It was just a thought.”

“Mate, you’re an auror whether or not you want to be an auror. It’s natural to you.”

“Yeah, but…” He pressed his lips together, because he didn’t know what the “but” was yet.

“Wait,” Ron waved a hand. “The _Department of Architectur_ e? The Ministry will lose its mind.”

There was a bit of a shared laugh at the thought, “I know it’s not what’s expected. But that’s… the problem, I think.” He tapped on his temple with a fingertip, leaning against that hand with his elbow on the table anyway as he gave his tea a stir with his right hand. “I want to enjoy what I do, and I just… don’t think I’ll find that in the Department of Law Enforcement as an auror. Do you--do you think about falling in line, like… in rank?”

“Yes, it’s drilled into my very soul daily. Yes, yes. I won’t lie, it’s hard."

Harry laughed and nearly nodded with his nose, watching Ron think it over, “I couldn’t do it.” He knew few things about himself for sure, but one of them was that he was known to go rogue based on his emotions in times of distress. Whenever there was moral ambiguity, it seemed, he was going to have an inner conflict, and he was tired enough of that already. “Proud of you."

Ron sighed, and they sat in silence for a few moments, until he said, “I think your entire makeup points to you being an auror, mate, I do. I know who you are, even if you forget. I’ll argue with you about it.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Ha,” Ron snorted, “but… want what will make you happy, 'arry. If that’s architecture for awhile, _Merlin_ , so be it.”

Harry smirked, amused but thankful for Ron’s struggle to understand, “No judgement, eh?”

“Can’t blame you for wanting a break,” Ron said, then, more seriously. 

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. And, on the upside, if I do ever decide to join, you’ll rank way ahead of me and can hold it over my head the rest of our lives. Things balance out, see.”

“Why, Harry, such a thought would never occur to me,” another Cheshire cat tea smile.

Harry laughed into his own tea and gave his foot a kick with his own under the table, “Arse.”


	5. Adult Acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tempur caliditas,” Draco whispered. He rotated his wrist in a slow and precise way until a thin red line left the tip of his wand. It swept just over Harry’s forehead to take his temperature. It felt like a puff of air, a summer breeze. It even rustled between his fingers in his hair, the coolness a relief for his hot skin. “A hundred and one point three."
> 
> “Yeah."
> 
> Draco dropped his face a good foot from across the table, palms down on it. He hunched his shoulders, searching for Harry’s eyes. He got them, carefully so, tilted his head rightward and lightly inquired only when the moment seemed gentle enough, “Should I take you to the hospital wing or can you get yourself up to bed?”

January flew by, leading right up to the early graduation ceremony of three quarters of the 8th years, which took place on a sunny, yet frigid, Friday afternoon, in the Great Hall. It was a particularly special graduation ceremony with all of the younger students as an audience and a select group of family for each student. For Hermione, both Harry and Ron sat and cheered her on. It was bittersweet for her, as though her parents’ memories were slowly being restored, they had not yet had the “Hermione” memory pop back. Yet.

There was a banquet, and then in a matter of a couple of hours, the graduating 8th years were coasting across the lake in enchanted boats, like all of the graduates who had come before them, waving goodbye to the younger students and remaining handful of 8th years. The group stood together on the dock, giving them a last wave. They waved back, their rite of passage.

“And then there were two,” Neville said to Harry, as they walked back up to the castle. That was, only two 8th year Gryffindor males left. Them. “More responsibility for us.”

“We’re in good hands with you, Neville,” Harry encouraged. “I can’t think of a better Gryffindor to be left here with the younger students.”

“Thanks. I feel the same about you.”

“I’ll probably have to stop avoiding everyone.”

“That _might_ help."

Harry looked back between their shoulders, finding Malfoy still down on the dock. With Blaise gone, Draco was the sole 8th year male left in Slytherin. They would need leadership, but Harry knew Draco wouldn’t have it in him to try to act as a guide. The kid looked more lost every time Harry had seen him in the corridors or in Potions. He kept his distance, though, as requested.

Also, his friends had been more vocal about their distrust of Malfoy, even now. Harry wanted to keep peace, no longer wanted to upset Hermione, Ginny, or even Neville, by even mentioning the Slytherin. Still, though, Harry held concerns he probably shouldn’t have. Why? He cursed himself aloud, tearing his eyes away and focusing straight ahead. He took the steps two at a time, seeing Professor McGonagall ahead and remembering they had been asked to come back to the Great Hall when they were done seeing their classmates off.

Harry was first in the Great Hall, found himself stacking wayward bowls that hadn’t been magicked clean or disappeared by the House Elves. He used a cloth napkin lying on the floor to sweep some crumbs into the center of the table the way he’d seen others do. They instantly disappeared. Nice.

“Hey.”

Harry turned, tugging the cloth taut between his hands. His breath had hitched unexpectedly at the voice. He hadn’t recognized it, because he’d never heard anyone say “hey” in that accent, so calmly and evenly. He managed a casual, “Oh, hey,” in return.

Malfoy pushed his hair behind his ear as he slid a leg over the bench, in his usual spot, but instead of sitting, Malfoy stacked the bowls on that side of the table and pushed them to the center of the table with very long, and surprisingly thick, fingers. It was startling, as Harry had never noticed them and he’d surely seen them enough. They looked like the hands of someone who did physical labor, and granted Malfoy had started to put on a little weight and stood solid now, but they were still at a stark contrast to the rest of him...

But then his attention was stolen away, because those dishes disappeared. Whoa, was this a thing? How had he never noticed this before? He pushed his own stack of bowls towards the center of the table, then felt so satisfied when they disappeared. Gleeful, even!

“Cool,” he commented just to himself. He put the cloth there, as well. Poof! “Ha!” He cleared his throat when he saw Malfoy and Neville both looking at him, openly, with varying expressions of confusion. He sobered, then they all looked over to where Professor McGonagall had just swept in with the Prefects. Behind her, four more 8th years, who came over and began to gather and chit chat around the end of the table.

“Gather,” she finally called a few minutes later when the remaining 8th years had assembled. Only some sat at the table and on the benches. Harry sat with his back to the table, facing outward, with his arms bent back on the surface and his head turned left to where she was standing. She motioned him to whirl around with her finger, so he hesitantly obliged. For tradition’s sake…

“We have a much smaller group now,” she stated the obvious, hands coming together in front of her small waist. She peered at their faces, from one side of the table to the other. “What we ask of you in these coming months remains much the same as what you’ve been doing up until now. With fewer of you, your priorities will be split more than they were even just a week ago. We will look to you all to help each other, in class, in house, and outside of class and house. Your academic studies will have slowed, however, giving you more time to balance out the new expectations. We will also be asking each of you to choose a phase of the Quidditch shed project to take a leadership role on: the first, restoring the structural integrity over the next three months, which will be challenging. That is the prerequisite for the second project which will overlap, which is the coordinating and planning for the house competition, which includes getting the required permits and making sure charms are thoroughly tested from beginning to end. The third and final phase, being the actual restoration and cosmetic design for the sheds. This will require input of the younger years and everything that goes along with that, such as teaching charm techniques that have been tested, facilitating design meetings, and the like.”

“That sounds like… work.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Thank you for noticing that.”

He gave a thumbs up.

They went around the table, and each of them offered the phase of the project they wanted to work on. By the end, perhaps without surprise, Harry was the only one who had chosen to work on the actual structural integrity. This was easily the most important, likely time consuming, and technically challenging phase of the projects. It was also the one that would see him dealing with the younger years the least, which, maybe shamefully, was one of the driving factors for his decision.

“Potter, a moment?” Professor McGonagall caught him on this way out of the Great Hall. He turned, at the foot of the stairs, giving Neville a wave that he’d catch up later, and he doubled back to her. Just as he was closing in, though, she also caught Malfoy with just a wave of her hand. She waited until they were both in front of her, neither having looked at the other.

Their faces said everything: what nightmare is about to unfold?

She looked to hold back a smile once they had both come to a stop, then offered, “You’re not going to be able to do the structural repairs by yourself and stay on track with the project timeline, even with your experience from the summer,” she told Harry, but her attention was on Draco, so Harry eyed him, too. His eyes focused right in on the profile of the filled-out jaw. He really did look different with the extra weight, healthy. There was a rosiness on the tips of his cheeks that had never been there before, matched the rest of him, like the weird dusty rose color of his lips and the twinge of pink on the bridge of his straight nose. All tied together and contrasted by white hair curled behind his ear and landing just at the sharp angle of his jaw, appearing all the more sharp because of the high black neck of his plain sweater.

 _Huh_ , Harry heard himself mentally make note. He supposed Malfoy had always been an _objectively_ attractive bloke, but now that Harry’s first thought upon seeing him was no longer, “bastard,” he thought Malfoy to be nice looking in general. He had a pleasant face, even.

“You are the most technically skilled wizard of your year, one of the reasons you were returned here on your own accord,” and Harry was wowed that she offered him that praise aloud. She boosted him up, just like that, and it was true. Malfoy was a gifted wizard and had worked hard for it in classes, and that Harry could begrudgingly admit. “Could I even bother to _humor_ the idea of putting you two together for the good of this project? You tell me if that is doable. The project will fail if you refuse, but no pressure.”

McGonagall looked like she was slowly dying inside after total and hideous ten seconds of petulant silence.

Harry finally broke, as it seemed he was the one who had to, “It’s fine with me.”

She looked to Draco expectantly.

He opened his mouth and a small sigh came out. He didn’t want to do it. He eyed Harry from the corner of his eye, openly. Unfortunately, Harry stood there with his arms tightly crossed over his chest in a protective fashion, tense. And Draco openly looked at the way he was standing, giving him his full attention, and slowly, all the way down to his feet. He paused at them, then whipped his face back to McGonagall as if to ask her if she was serious, if she saw _this_.

McGonagall’s eyes were stern on Harry, ridiculing his body language _oh_ so loudly.

He sheepishly dropped his arms, feeling like a scorned child, and made some small noise to digress, and apologized. Satisfied, she looked from Harry to Draco, to not keep her waiting any longer.

“Okay.”

“Tremendous,” she was sure to genuinely extend her gratitude at Malfoy’s answer, and gave a clap. “I’ll set something up to go over what we know and what the Ministry has given us as far as guidelines. Goodnight, boys.”

“Goodnight, Professor,” Harry offered genuinely as she passed.

“Goodnight,” Draco said, turning to watch her go after she walked through the giant space between the two young men, with his arms behind his back. He twisted all of the way to watch her go, and he stepped away without further ado in her wake without a glance or acknowledgment back to the smiling, eye-rolling eighteen year old behind him.

Harry watched after the tall, lean frame. He wasn’t sure what it was he found so amusing, but there was this surprising, underlying and complex vibration of sorts under the surface of the interaction that tickled a mischievous side of him.

When Malfoy was far enough away for it to be uncomfortable, Harry offered a pointed, “ _Goodnight_ ,” and the _prick_ remained silent.

Draco paused mid-step only briefly, and his hands began to change positions against his lower back.

Harry lifted his index finger up to his bottom lip which was stretched upward with his smile, and he murmured his laughter at the middle finger being returned to him. Really, this was what they were reduced to? Merlin, it was going to be a long winter _even_ if they managed to be civil.

Once up the steps, over the broad left shoulder appeared Malfoy’s profile, and he looked right back at Harry who stood at the bottom of the stairs, now, by the banister post, pondering him with his left arm crossed over his stomach and the angle of his right right thumb and index finger locked around his chin and jaw. And just like that Malfoy smiled in full, with teeth, a rare sight, gave a shake of his head, and disappeared up on the landing as quickly as the smile had appeared.

“Ugh,” Harry scoffed to the foyer as his hand came down from his chin. He motioned to the air beside him, for back-up. The foyer did not seem to agree with his sentiments, so he waved it off and headed up for bed. But genuinely, he was looking forward to the work that would entail for the project, as it would keep him busy and maybe give him better insight into whether or not this was something he could see himself pursuing after Hogwarts full time. Or, at least, as Ron had put it, “for awhile.”

Harry’s life became consumed by the project over the following two months. When he and Malfoy weren’t in class or at a meal, one of both of them were in the library trying to figure out the correct mechanical dimensions for any number of different challenging bits of structure incantations and charms they never would have even known existed those two months earlier. While the first month saw them mostly doing research, the following month they were often down on the grounds working on different parts of the quidditch sheds, testing out their work.

It was a learning experience.

“Hey,” Harry greeted. He set a container down the worn library table in front of the giant window that looked right out over the quidditch grounds, always providing a reminder of what they were working on and why, and slid it down the table. “Pork and potatoes, compliments of Ms. Middy,” a house elf who looked out for Draco’s nutrition needs suspiciously well.

Malfoy’s open palm lightly molded around the container to stop it, pulling it towards him in an eager way. Because his classes ended earlier than Harry’s, he was usually in the library an hour earlier. Harry then stayed an hour later than Malfoy to put in the same amount of time. Sometimes he was working on his own pieces, sometimes Malfoy’s, and sometimes they worked on trickier pieces together.

It helped to bounce ideas off of each other.

“I was thinking, if we end up trying to do the restore instead of the replacement on the front interior lateral beam,” Malfoy explained as he stood, pointing a torn piece of bread in his left hand at the parchment paper hanging from the eighth shelf of one of the bookcases their area was sandwich between, “we’re going to run into a problem later when we’re trying to fit the modified parapet. I mean, we could _make_ it work."

“Uh,” Harry squinted his left eye and pinched his forehead, trying to remember where they had left off the Friday before. “You’re right. Why make it more complicated than it needs to be? Not sure McGonagall wants to hear we want to do a replacement, though.”

“We’re modifying the parapet. The savings from that alone would cover anything with the beams.”

“ _If_ we can modify the parapet,” Harry reminded him of their largest hurdle yet.

Malfoy popped the piece of bread into his mouth, then, instead of replying. His attention was on the diagram on the hanging parchment. Once in awhile, he moved his wand around and the beams changed positions. This left Harry time to get settled, opening his own container of food on the left side of the large table. He always sat on the left, and Malfoy always sat on the right. They sat at separate ends of the table, always, because each was working on his own items.

They always left their setup as it was when they left. No one was going to come and mess up what they had. No one would care to do such a thing over such mind-numbing work.

Harry unbuttoned his cardigan and hung it around the back of his chair before melting down into the high-back of the wooden chair. He was exhausted today, felt foggy mentally, and his mood was not great because he had not done well on his Transfiguration exam at the end of the day. It was bugging him, which was not so out of character. He was well used to studying and feeling prepared for exams by now, but this one had thrown him for a couple of loops. He had been slightly embarrassed when he’d handed in his exam, even.

Harry leaned over his container and drowned himself in the warm comfort food, savoring the flavor.

“I think we’re stuck on this one,” Draco finally concluded, taking a seat at his end of the table.

“We’ll figure it out.” And he was sure they WOULD figure it out, but he knew it wouldn’t be that night. He just wasn’t in it tonight.

They finished up their meals in the usual silence.

It was around six fifteen when Harry was leaned over on the table with his left cheek to his upper arm. His elbow was bent, and his hand and fingers were splayed in his hair and over his head. Once in awhile, he found himself giving his head or hair a pat, like to soothe himself. With his right hand, he scribbled irrationally through the last few calculations, then tapped the quill to his forehead for good measure five or six times to force his brain to work. WORK, BRAIN!

Work, damnit.

The quill disappeared from between his fingers. He lifted his cheek from the sleeve of his ringer shirt, the red hem around his bicep at contrast with the stark white of the rest of the shirt. He wiggled his fingers, wondering where it went, and then, still with his chin to his inner shoulder, looked through the triangle of his arm down the table.

The quill was between Malfoy’s right fingers as his own left hand finished scribbling away some notes. Without looking over, he asked, “Why don’t you call it a night?”

Harry didn’t have it in him to argue, ended up switching arms on the table, so he was now facing the other boy with his cheek to his right palm, tiredly. Malfoy finally lifted his eyes from his work. They landed on the messy hair, the cheek to palm, the short sleeved shirt and the exposed arms. Harry was in rare sorts this evening, opposite of Malfoy and his usual high-necked black sweater which was far more appropriate for the cool library in front of exposed windows.

Harry let him look.

“Potter, are you all right?” He inquired with a softer tone this time, turning in his chair. “You don’t look well.”

“Pretty sure I have a fever."

Malfoy lowered his quill and dropped it beside Harry’s on top of his note-filled parchment, always more organized and legible than Harry’s. Harry’s quill sighed atop the evenly written lines. It was unexpected, and the two both unexpectedly laughed. It was innocent enough. It softened the tone even more, though, and Draco stood up and out of his chair, to the left, pressing himself up with the table as leverage. He came closer, and Harry’s eyes followed like a lazy cat keeping track of a mouse.

“ _Tempur caliditas_ ,” Draco whispered. He rotated his wrist in a slow and precise way until a thin red line left the tip of his wand. It swept just over Harry’s forehead to take his temperature. It felt like a puff of air, a summer breeze. It even rustled between his fingers in his hair, the coolness a relief for his hot skin. “A hundred and one point three."

“Yeah."

Draco dropped his face a good foot from across the table, palms down on it. He hunched his shoulders, searching for Harry’s eyes. He got them, carefully so, tilted his head rightward and lightly inquired only when the moment seemed gentle enough, “Should I take you to the hospital wing or can you get yourself up to bed?”

“It’s just… so far, and I’m so tired. Give me a few minutes to get my strength.” He finally lifted himself, righting his spine and posture. His face was hot. He felt that particular flush, clammy and hot, at the nape of his neck. Even in the cold library, he felt warm and “off.” He hadn’t had a fever since he was a kid, so he really didn’t know what to make of it. He rested his head back against the chair and stared idly up at the vaulted ceiling, tracing a crack there.

Had it always been there?

Malfoy was up and moving around, and after a couple of minutes, Harry’s shoulder received a light shake. He broke away from his idle trance, nearly having been asleep with his eyes open, and shifted his attention to the right, where Malfoy was leaning back against the table next to him with a discerning focus on him. He gave Harry a moment to adjust, and then Harry pushed his chair back and stood. He pulled his cardigan from the chair behind him, slipping his right arm through the sleeve. He forgot about his left, finding his eyes down on the other arm that was now touching the floor.

Oh.

“I’m really messed up,” Harry awed, bewildered, and lifted his attention to Malfoy to his right as if he wasn’t aware. Okay, he seemed aware, both of his thick, angled eyebrows lifted along with his wrinkled forehead. He had his bag over his shoulder, and Harry’s bag in his left hand. He used a fingertip to hook into the material of Harry’s cardigan, to help him out, and walked around to his other side. He tugged for Harry’s attention.

Harry slid his left fingers in through the arm sleeve, accepting the help.

“Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

They walked in silence, often at a slow pace, and Harry led him right up to the Fat Lady.

Draco handed him his bag, and Harry just held it at his side so it sat on the ground. He hadn’t the energy or strength to lift it.

“Oh dear,” the Fat Lady expressed to Harry, leaning forward in her painting to get a better look, “I’ll call for Madam Pomfrey.”

“Thanks,” Harry tiredly told her, too, and then she swung open. He turned and looked at the boy who stood there, all ten million feet of him, in black from shoulder to toe, including the bag he shifted over his shoulder with his hand. He wore an expression of genuine concern, one Harry appreciated, but seeing that Harry was where he needed to be, moved for the stairs.

“Hey?”

Malfoy turned. He waited with that pleasant, broad face Harry was becoming used to, “Thank you.”

“Sure, Potter. Anytime.”

They went their separate ways, and Harry struggled to get up the steps and into his dorm.

He was in bed for two days following, sick with “the good old flu,” according to Madam Pomfrey, who had paid him a visit upon word he’d barely woken up in twelve hours. He was straight up _sick_. One minute he was freezing, chills all over his body, and the next he was burning up and kicking his multiple quilts off. It was so miserable, but he slept it off. According to Madam Pomfrey, that was the best medicine. He was still recovering when he showed up at the library Thursday.

Malfoy looked over, startled.

“I’m not contagious anymore,” Harry offered his hands up in light surrender.

“You don’t need to be here,” and it wasn’t so much a “I can handle this myself,” as it was a, “getting better is more important.”

“It’s all I can think about.”

“Yeah, me too,” was offered back to him after a pause, surprisingly. He stood and moved for the hanging parchment. “I’ve made some… changes.” And he got an eyebrow raise in return. He got to his feet to defend himself, joining Harry in front of the parchment to explain himself. Before he even had to point anything out, Harry already pinpointed where the changes were. He tiredly reached out with a finger and traced an outline of an added beam.

“That’ll work,” Harry cut him off so he didn’t feel the need to explain. “Why, er… why didn’t we think of that earlier?”

“We don’t have to restore everything _exactly_ just the way it was. We made it too complicated.”

They got back to work, which Harry found comfort in. He hadn’t liked feeling helpless.

The end of March moved into the beginning of April, finally warm enough for Harry to resume his runs around the lake. Within a week, he was amazed at the clarity returning to his life. He didn’t know if that was a placebo effect ultimately, but he knew one thing for sure, and that was that his mood was improved. He smiled more, he returned to saying good morning to people on the way to breakfast each morning, and he had a renewed focus on the quidditch sheds, as well as his two remaining classes.

He and Malfoy finally began the actual work their two months of preparation and study had led up to. The first shed, Gryffindor, was their most challenging simply because it was the first. There were a couple of hiccups, but within two days it had been restored. Each shed after went more quickly, and by Mid-April they had finished their pieces just in time for the third phase of the project to begin. And it felt good to have the students cheer for the structural integrity and notice the small improvements they had long since forgotten they’d made.

Maxius and his team came down one day to inspect when they were on site to survey for the Herbology wing rebuild which would begin over the summer. The team was supportive, and Maxius was impressed. He congratulated them, and this time made mention of the Department of Architecture mentorship to both of them. And while Malfoy was not interested, Harry took him up on the offer to come by the Ministry for a tour of the Department and an overview of what the mentorship program entailed.

All of the other 8th years, including Malfoy, took on the fun of the design project, except for Harry. There were too many 8th year Gryffindors involved anyway, so he stayed away from the grounds and the plans. Like McGonagall, he was excited to see the end results and didn’t want to see anything until then. This was nice, though, because he spent all of May enjoying the warmer weather, running, finishing up his classes, and starting to feel both prepared to graduate and ready to take on life outside of Hogwarts. He did spend more time with the younger students, especially the first to third years, during this time, both in his house and outside of his house.

“I never can find you inside,” Ginny laughed, meeting him by the lake.

Harry leaned in and gave her a peck on his cheek, keeping his distance otherwise because he was sweating from his evening run, “Nice surprise,” he offered. “How was your final?”

“Aced it.”

“Never a doubt there,” he said, plopping down beside her on the bench. He kept his distance still but lifted his left arm up and behind her. His fingertips pawed at the bottom of her cut hair. She had cut it to shoulder length, a drastic change she had regretted almost instantly. He liked it, though--actually, kind of reminded him of Malfoy’s length by now, though her hair was perfectly flat and straight, tamed, versus Malfoy’s which always curled because it was trained to be pushed behind his ears. He laughed to himself, imaging how pissed she’d be to hear the comparison.

“What!”

“Nothing, nothing,” he laughed, looking out at the lake. “Tomorrow is the big reveal.”

“Slytherin will win.”

“I heard that from someone else today, too. Is it that cool?”

“Well, they do have Daphne and Malfoy doing all of the charms work. They’re both pretty advanced.”

“All of the 8th years are advanced, though.”

“Gryffindor went classic. There aren’t a lot of gimmicks.”

“Well, maybe classic wins out in the end?” He stroked her cheek with a thumb to brush a piece of wayward hair away.

“Maybe.”

He watched her closely, “ _What’s wrong_?”

“Have you officially decided where you’re staying?”

“Oh, sorry. I went to Grimmauld a couple of weekends ago to see if it was viable when I went to visit Teddy,” he remembered. He had told her about that visit, just not the stop in Islington. “Kreacher’s been busy, the place was spotless. Not sure I’ll ever be able to get rid of the screeching painting of Mrs. Black, but I guess I can keep her covered up. You know, you… can come stay whenever you want.”

“I will, if not for any other reason than to give mum anxiety.”

Harry did laugh at that, tilting his head back, “Ginny, so adult now, going to stay in London at her boyfriend’s house over the summer.”

“Aren’t _you_ going to be lonely, though?”

“No. And anyway, I fully expect Ron to end up unofficially moving in at some point. It’s closer to work for him. For all I know, maybe Hermione too. There’s more than enough room.”

“None for me?”

“You already want to move in with me? Do I have you fooled or what?”

She punched him in the upper arm, and he laughed while nursing it gingerly because it had legitimately stung. She crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry could tell there was part of her reaction that was genuine. He wasn’t ready for her to move in. He was just looking forward to being alone at Grimmauld and putting time into exploring some of the rooms he never had before. In all of his visions of doing so, he’d never once envisioned her there alongside him.

“Come on,” he finally said, this time slightly irritated. “Are we going to have this conversation _again_?”

It was definitely the wrong thing to say, because she turned right to him and clenched her jaw to the left. Not quite so willing to apologize this time, he gave her a tired expression in return. It was too beautiful a day for this, and yeah, maybe he didn’t want to find the time to talk about this right now. He looked back out at the lake while letting her mull over just how sharply she wanted to reply to his annoyance.

“If you want to stop having the conversation, start making an effort!” She stood right up, fingers and hands clenched at her sides. She threw them up, though, when all he did was idly stare at her. She imitated him, as he leaned forward over his knees with his elbows on them and baited him. “ _What_?”

“Please don’t stand here and yell at me like I’m a child. I’ve been upfront with you for months.”

She pulled her hair up on the top of her head--or tried--but because it was no longer long, it just reminded her. That set her off an extra bit, a reminder that her hair was gone, and he grimaced about it. This would not end so well for him if he just sat there and took it. He wasn’t in the mood to be her target practice.

He stood, “You know what, we should talk, but not here, and not now.”

“You always run away, every time.”

“I,” he just barely managed, feeling his ears start to burn, “I--I’m not going to say anything helpful right now, that’s all. I’m not going to be your punching bag, though. If I’m not moving as fast as you need, you already know what I’m going to say.”

“Don’t say it.” She pointed at him from five meters apart as he backed away. “ _Don’t_ say it.”

“Then let me leave, because if I don’t go now, I _will_ say it.”

There. 

Harry hurried away. His post-running high was gone, replaced with frustration. If this was love, if this was relationships, he wasn’t sure he was made for it. Granted, he KNEW he moved slowly, but there was so much behind that purposeful decision. He’d barely seen the world yet, barely had even explored magic London whilst hearing all kinds of great things about the cool places to go and people to meet from his graduated peers.

There were people to meet, for both himself and Ginny, and if this was going to last the way he had figured by now, what was the hurry to do everything before they’d even graduated from Hogwarts? He tried to be a good boyfriend otherwise--he was respectful, held her hand, gave her a good snog and cuddle sometimes, but still at the heart of the relationship there was this… struggle for Harry to give her a definitive commitment for the future, the thought of which caused him great distress. 

On the walk back up to the castle, he witnessed a group of what looked to be third year Slytherins and Ravenclaws standing around on a hill in a circle, practicing charms that kept a star afloat at the center of the circle. Standing off to the left in the bright sun, guiding them, was a red-tinged Malfoy under a green baseball cap. Malfoy! In a baseball cap! The awe!

“Eh,” he grimaced, as suddenly the star dropped to the ground and a student leaned forward whilst clutching her wrist. Malfoy was beside her in two seconds, kneeling, and so were her classmates. He seemed to have it under control, was assessing it, when Harry closed in to see if any help was needed.

Beside him flew some thin pieces of wood from the plot of trees nearby, some sort of bark that had likely popped off.

Malfoy fashioned a splint for her using some of the bark, lastly securing it with two hair bands from two of the other girls in the group. One was green, one was blue, and for good measure Draco changed the color of the blue hairband to green. This elicited eyerolls from the Ravenclaws, but there was a perfectly inflammatory smile on Draco’s entire face they knew better than to think sourly of. 

Harry observed it all, feeling a rush of something he was sure was emotion for both the students and Malfoy. Whether or not he realized it, the students around him all seemed to be looking to him, trusting him to make the situation better, and finding him harmless. It was a beautiful thing, spoke highly of these students and well for their future.

The poor girl laughed through her tears. Mission accomplished, really.

“Come on, we’ll get you to the hospital wing.”

“I can take her, I’m headed up that way,” Harry offered, so the lesson could continue.

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco said, still kneeling, having only just realized Harry was there, standing over him too. He waited until she seemed ready and helped her stand, at which time Harry guided her along to fall into step with him. “Watch out, Katie. He could try to pry Slytherin quidditch shed designs out of you.”

Katie, the girl, gave Draco a salute with her good hand while the other students chuckled.

Harry had it in him to laugh, because it’d been innocent, and he walked her up to the castle and in to see Madam Pomfrey. He stayed with them for about ten minutes, too, while Madam Pomfrey did her analysis. Just a sprain, she said, and Malfoy’s hatchet splint job was instantly replaced with a traditional one. She handed Katie a potion for the pain, told her she’d need to rest for about an hour, at which point Harry departed.

Malfoy was approaching.

“She’s fine, just a sprain,” Harry explained, circling while they passed each other. They stopped, though. “Pomfrey gave her a potion. She’s probably sound asleep by now.”

“Oh,” Malfoy looked over at the hospital wing doors. “I should still check in. I’ll see you downstairs.”

“I’m going to head into Hogsmeade,” Harry said, for dinner-- _and a drink_ \--as he turned away. “See you in the morning.”

“Want company?”

Harry considered it as he retreated. Did he want company? No. But Malfoy was all right and would be more a conspirator than a conversation partner. They could commiserate together, “Yeah, sure.”

Malfoy held up one finger, as if to tell him to give him a minute. He disappeared through the hospital wing doors and emerged a couple of minutes later and confirmed, “Out like a light. Pomfrey said she’d been practicing outside of lessons too much, way too much strain on virgin wrists not used to handling that tension and weight.”

“How much does the star weigh?”

“Never sure, it automatically adjusts. It starts off light and, in time, based on the wand strain, increases the burden to bear. My fault for not seeing her struggle, though.” He held his gut with his huge left hand. It splayed across his stomach. He wasn’t even joking, though, by his tone. He was sick with guilt. “A butterbeer sounds good.”

“ _Yep_ ,” Harry agreed. “Oh no.” Just as they landed at the foot of the stairs, Harry saw Ginny and Neville coming in from outside. She spotted him. He nervously sighed out of his lips, not bothering to keep it quiet, and by some miracle, Malfoy had an instinct to continue on walking while Harry trailed off in Ginny’s direction as if to make it look like they were not headed the same place.

“Where were you?” She asked, looking after Draco, but so was Neville.

“Hospital wing; a third year sprained her wrist doing wand work.”

“How is that… possible?” She did seem fascinated. “His fault?”

“Um,” Harry considered, and he looked over his shoulder to where Malfoy had existed and was walking down the steps of the front of the castle ahead of him, on his journey to Hogsmeade. He kind of laughed. “Yeah, probably.”

“ _Hilarious_ ,” she wryly replied, and her eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” he said to her, and backed away, though he was already at a safe distance. His hands came up and placed together in front of him, as if to make peace, “ _great_. Lovely to see you. Have a nice evening.” He spun, half expecting to be cursed at, but luckily there were some younger year students walking in through the doors.

Harry scooted around them and hopped down the steps, both of his hands pushing his hair back. He held the back of his head with one, and rubbed his forehead with the other, concentrating on the few clouds in a bright blue sky. It was a perfect evening for a walk to Hogsmeade, and soon enough he arrived at the covered bridge where he found Draco waiting. To his credit, he saw Harry’s expression and pulled a face as he stood.

“I won’t ask.”

“Yeah, please don’t.”

This trip down to Hogsmeade became a weekly thing until graduation.

The last of the historic 8th years took the same journey across the lake they’d seen the others take back at the beginning of February, getting the traditional and ritualistic wave off from the mass of their underclassmen back on the banks of the lake and the docks, where the 7th years stood who were also getting ready to hop on their own boats to cross the lake.

It was unexpectedly emotional for Harry, and not just the day but the week leading up to it.

Goodbye to Hogwarts, he said, watching the golden sun set on it, just over the astronomy tower.

He found Professor McGonagall particularly. When she saw him looking, she clapped more softly with a bowed head, and his hands came together in a subtle way, too, and he lowered his face and eyes in thanks. Her support had meant the world to him, and had made a world of difference over the last few months. Her asks of him had challenged him, but had also been fair. She was perfect at that, and he was grateful for it. He knew he would be back to visit her soon, though, so he breathed in the scent of the water deeply and leaned back against a railing next to Neville, relieved that this moment had finally arrived and he did not feel torn, or conflicted, or sad!

When they had been boarding the Hogwarts Express to head back to King’s Cross Station, he had caught sight of Draco boarding the very last train car, away from most everyone else, and was struck at the memory of how they had started this journey those years ago. And while Harry did board with his friends and Ginny, he eventually excused himself, lifted his canvas bag, said his goodbyes, and made his way to the last car. He found the correct compartment, then knocked on the glass with a light knuckle.

“You lost?” Malfoy asked aloud, muffled though it was from behind the closed door.

Harry gave a thumbs up, his go-to response.

Draco gave a snort and motioned him to come in with only a head nod to the right.

“A poetic ending?”

“Yeah.”

And again, at the one word answer he was all too familiar with hearing by now, and Harry knew it so killed him not to comment on it, looked right at him then cracked a smile, “The gesture is kind, Potter, but I already know that about you. You can go back to your friends.”

“Um,” Harry squinted out the window, and then hesitated and latched onto the pale squinted eyes in return, “I think I’d rather just like to sit here with my... childhood nemesis and also my, uh... adult _acquaintance?_ ”

Malfoy had pinched the bridge of his nose, groaned, and then they’d both laughed.

On Platform 9 ¾, Harry stuck out his left hand instead of his right, like he had the first time they’d shaken hands back in the clock tower.

Malfoy went to offer his right by default, saw that Harry was offering his left, and had a genuine reaction. His head went back the smallest bit, looking, and then he reached out his left hand and clasped Harry’s. It was such a firm grasp, a true moment. There was respect on both ends, and they really looked over each other’s faces good and hard before their handshake fell away.

“I’ll see you around.”


	6. Family Ties

Not having applied in time to take Maxius up on his offer for mentorship at the Ministry, following his graduation, Harry was the only 8th year that he knew of who didn’t have some sort of opportunity lined up either immediately or come the new year. It bothered him at first, especially when he was staying at the Burrow initially. Nearly everyone, including Hermione and Ron, would leave for work, and then he’d just be left hanging out with Molly or walking around somewhere with Ginny.

That had gotten old quickly.

By the first of August, Harry had moved himself fully into Grimmauld place with his few possessions. The home, still very much being the ancient house of Black, didn’t feel like his own, but it was private, quiet, and he had plenty of time to explore the house, the neighborhood, and broader magical London where he sometimes met up with Ron, Hermione, or any one of their peers from over the years, for lunch at different spots.

“Freeze.”

Kreacher put a heel back from where he had walked by a flushed Harry.

Harry cocked an eyebrow and walked over towards the house elf who had made a game out of swiping trinkets Harry had put aside while trying to clean out a cupboard in the drawing room. It had been intended to be a donation pile, but… Kreacher was just relocating everything to his quarters.

Kreacher’s ears went down and his shoulders slouched.

“Really, a jar of old herbs?” Harry sighed, leaning against the door frame with folded arms. This one, he truly didn’t understand. He offered his one hand down, fingers coming open in a soft way, so he didn’t seem threatening. He kept his fingers loosely outstretched, grateful when Kreacher actually took a chance on him and handed over the jar. “I’ve never seen any like it.”

“Master Regulus grew garden himself, stored his own.”

Harry was enlightened, twirling the jar between his fingers. He handed it back over.

Kreacher’s ears perked up, unsure if it was a trick until Harry motioned him to take it. He did.

“Is it the jar or the memory you really want?”

Kreacher’s head turned, and his ears came up more. He looked curiously to Harry, but no answer came. He took his jar and left the room, and Harry, thoughtful. He hadn’t meant to intrude, but if Kreacher kept this up, he wouldn’t have any room in his den to… _move_. And truthfully, who was Harry to come in here and tell him he had to get rid of the memories of his life and the people who he had served and loved, and vice versa?

This was the Black’s house. Even if it was Harry’s, now, legally, he was just a guest here.

He studied the parapet as he walked out of the drawing room and into the grand foyer and was reminded of the work he and Draco had done on the quidditch sheds. In the end, though Slytherin had won out with their design--the biggest house competition upset ever--it had been a tremendous project that had brought the houses together.

For as much history as they were living through in their community, Harry felt particularly fond and warm about that accomplishment and having witnessed a new generation of Hogwarts students, and especially Slytherins, led by Draco, of all people, complete a huge project together. Every house had been thoughtful of their designs, but Slytherin had been _cognizant_ too. That star that levitated above their shed by two meters lit up in the color of whatever team had won the last quidditch match and shot off celebratory sparks in the direction of the winning team’s shed.

It had been such a cool feature, endearing the effort to all students at once.

A piece of wallpaper fell from high above, drawing his attention back up to the peeling wall. The windows had been cleaned and the curtains removed, letting in gorgeous light from the huge windows that looked out over the quaint and coveted residential street. He loved everything about the foyer structurally, imagined how extravagant it must have been in its glory days.

It was often that he thought about architecture, but it was more out of a sense of looking at things and imagining how he could restore, repair, or improve them.

That wallpaper? Not worth repairing.

“Kreacher?”

“Yes?”

Harry motioned up, “Is it okay with you if we take this wallpaper down?” He got a nod. “Is it okay with you if we paint this room instead?”

“Red?” Kreacher inquired, to match the wallpaper.

“Uh, well… probably not. White. Bright, blinding white. I think.” He peered back at the windows, imaging what that might look like, if the gigantic space could meet the generous light and enormous, original windows and light up an otherwise dreary and morbid foyer. And sure, the wall that lined the grand staircase was still, and would always be, lined with shrunken house elf heads that the light would uncomfortably shine light on, but...

Kreacher wasn’t thrilled but digressed, and he suddenly offered the jar.

Harry took it, staring at Kreacher importantly rather than looking at it.

“Memory.”

Harry gave a nod of understanding, deeply surprised. Usually Kreacher just blew him off. He switched his attention to the jar in an important way, “Did you help him with the garden?” A nod. Ah, okay. “Out back?” In the overgrown, weed-filled plot. Another nod. “Kreacher… yeah, it’s… It’s a little late now for the year--er, at least from what I actually paid attention to in Herbology--but let’s put it on the top of the list for next year. An herb garden, at least. Would you help me?”

Nod--head down, ears down, eyes down. But then he spun and disappeared in an instant.

Harry held the jar to his chest in the absence, found himself smiling as he stood in the center of the foyer. He put the jar down, though, on the entry table near the front door and called out to the empty foyer, “Kreacher, I’m leaving now. I’ll be back with Teddy this evening.” He heard nothing in return, so he moved back into the drawing room and to the ornate black marble fireplace which really was a standout piece but blurred into the background of gaudy purple and green damask wallpaper. He pulled down the new jar of floo powder and stepped in.

“Andromeda Tonks’ house.”

The foyer was empty when he arrived, and by now he didn’t expect anyone to greet him, nor was it necessary. He was here at least once a week, but usually there wasn’t anyone else around except Andromeda or Teddy. Okay, so once in awhile Andromeda had some of her lady friends over to play cards and drink tea while Harry took Teddy for a couple of hours--maybe into town, maybe for ice cream, maybe just for a long walk, or they went and played in the nearby park.

A female voice was coming from the drawing room. It wasn’t Andromeda’s, but that being said, he recognized it. It took him a long few moments to place it. He realized only a couple of feet from the door that it was the voice of Narcissa Malfoy. Before he could appear in the door frame, he stopped himself and listened closely to confirm.

Yeah, it was her. The conversation sounded… light. He had no idea what was going on, was worried about why she would be there. That he knew, details at length, that the Black family had disowned Andromeda. He knew that Bellatrix had never even MET her niece before she’d been killed, and he had assumed the same of Narcissa who had seemed to follow in the footsteps of all of the rest of her family when it came to pureblood supremacy, Andromeda, Ted, and Tonks.

This couldn’t have been a surprise visit. The conversation was too cordial for it to have just come out of the blue. It was none of his business, though, so he cleared his throat to announce his arrival as he approached. Their conversation died down, so when Harry appeared in the doorway, their attention was on him from where they sat opposite each other on two settees.

On the floor, with a bunch of wooden blocks with snakes all over them, sat Teddy.

A foot away, kneeling on the rug with his hands full of blocks he seemed to have been instructed by Teddy to hold, was Draco. What! Harry blinked about three times, shaking his head at the entire scene, which caused Andromeda to knowingly laugh. Before she could get out a word, or explain anything to anyone, Teddy had gasped and was up on his feet.

“‘arry!”

Harry swiped him up in about three seconds, coming into the room, off of his star-covered slippers and up towards the ceiling. He brought him right down, though, back to his feet, with a light kiss to the top of his fluffy light brown hair. He gave him a wink to wait just a second and met Andromeda in a one-armed hug. He gave her cheek a kiss, too, but his attention was on Narcissa over her shoulder.

Once Andromeda pulled away, she motioned Harry closer, to come. He did, and he leaned over, politely, with an offered hand. Narcissa abandoned her tea on the table so her free right hand could meet his. And that’s all, just a polite hand grasp. She leaned into it, as well, in an eager way to make sure he knew she was there as a friend, not a foe, so he immediately read what this was: an obvious effort to rekindle a relationship with her sister. He gave her a slight nod as their hands separated. He followed her eyes to Draco.

Draco rose slowly from his knees in front of the window, gigantic hands still full of blocks. Even in the dead of summer, eventually he stood tall in a black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and black pointed-toe shoes. His hair, immaculate. He’d seen sun, his color darker than Harry had ever seen and tinged red on all of the high points of his face.

“Draco,” Teddy explained to Harry, as if he did not know. It sounded more like “Jake-O” though.

“Ah, thank you,” Harry told Teddy sincerely, looking down to the big blue eyes peering up at him. It was all so ridiculous that the only thing he could do to cut the tension (which maybe only he was feeling) was start laughing. “Are you making new friends without me? Hi Draco, I’m Harry.”

Draco was all for a good show for a happy Teddy, too, and switched all of the blocks to his left hand in order to offer his right, and then found Harry offering his left again. Like months earlier, oops. He looked straight into Harry’s squinted, happy eyes from the arms-length distance away, smiled so hard while Harry genuinely choked down a laugh from his throat, switched hands for blocks again, and then shook Harry’s left hand with his own.

“Nice to meet you for the first time ever, Harry.”

It was such a light moment between them, and Harry found himself feeling strangely happy and relieved to be back looking into Malfoy’s face. It was familiar and stirred up a lot of different feelings. He was proud of where they had come to, enough that they could have a laugh in this sort of setting which was so uncomfortable for them both.

Harry was the one who pulled his hand away. It felt foreign, so he pulled it back to his right hand and absentmindedly squeezed his own fingers. But his attention soon shifted!

Teddy was holding up one of the intricately carved blocks. Instead of taking it, Harry bent down over him to observe it. There were numbers on two of the six sides, the others carved with letters or snakes. Cute snakes, though, that smiled from behind hissing tongues.

One hissed at Harry, and Teddy lost it. He giggled into his own small palm that he put over his face, like it was all too much. He threw his little head back and laughed with Draco, like they had some inside secret about the blocks. Freakin’ figured! He tried to pretend to be annoyed, but it didn’t work.

“Time escaped us, Harry,” Andromeda explained, almost emotional. “Come on Teddy, let’s go get you all fixed up.”

“No, please,” Harry offered the obvious, motioning her to sit back down, “sit down. Continue, continue.” He stirred his hands about. “We’re good, right?”

“Good!” Teddy happily echoed, taking Harry’s cue and looking at his grandmother happily. A small thumbs up even surfaced.

“ _Oh no_ ,” Draco drawled just loud enough for Harry to hear, and enough to embarrass him.

“Come on, let’s get your boots on,” Harry told Teddy who hopped away from the rugs and his blocks to go get his boots on in the foyer. He was a light--a rowdy light--and a bright one, and he zoomed by Harry on unsteady but confident legs, leaving his godfather somewhat flabbergasted. He looked back over to the other three adults who were watching in Teddy’s wake, too, and the trail of blocks he’d left.

It was pure adoration, which was moving, Harry knew, for Andromeda. 

“Were you going to stay awhile or were you on your way out?”

Andromeda looked back at Narcissa and Draco, too, for their reactions, but neither seemed to be in any hurry, so she encouraged, “I’m rather enjoying the company of adults, much as I love our little Teddy bear. Would you stay for lunch?” And Narcissa agreed. And Draco, who had nothing to do, it seemed, this day, was in it for the long haul, as well.

“I was going to say,” Harry said, then, looking over at the other nineteen year old, “we’re planning on splashing in puddles on our way to get some lunch, if you wanted to tag along.”

Draco nearly paled, mostly because his mother’s attention moved to him in the softest way.

“No offense taken if you’d rather stay here.”

But anyway, Harry moved out into the foyer, searching for the boy he found on the step up to the front door, trying to put his boots on the wrong feet. Perfection! He bent right down, switched the boots for him and pointed it at the right foot. Teddy happily put his boot on, huge goofy smile on his face when it slid right on. Success!

This kid was wild!

By the time he had a lightweight yellow raincoat on, bundled up, Draco had joined them.

Harry grabbed a couple of the black umbrellas in the corner by the door, then followed them out into the rain. He handed one off to Draco, and opened his own. Teddy was already three feet away and had taken a huge leap into the very first puddle he saw. His hair was already soaked by the rain.

At contrast to Harry’s amused sigh, he heard a small murmur about it all, and it was from Draco a good 3 yards away.

There was this expression, torn totally between fascination and horror.

“Ha,” Harry said to just himself, entertained. He, too, could not picture a young Draco Malfoy jumping in a puddle. He imagined Draco as a child in the same black clothing he wore now, scoffing at childish pursuits like running around in the rain or jumping in puddles. But interesting, Harry had never done that as a child, either.

He’d never had the chance to think about it, really. Had he dared to hop into a puddle PURPOSELY and get his shoes and socks dirty, shoes and socks the Dursley’s had purchased for him, he’d not have seen sunlight for days. The thought jarred him, and he quickly pulled his hand down from where it had jumped up to his throat, which felt quite tight and swollen.

Teddy spotted another puddle on the walkway and ran for it. He took the most giant, all-consuming jump he could. He clenched his little fists and put all of his effort into springing into it. He fell, just tumbled over, but there was nothing but happiness. Totally unfazed, he pushed his little self up.

He did look to Harry, his little palms offered up and out. He was a little startled by the wetness.

Harry spelled him dry under his breath, then scooted him along and out the gate behind Draco. Teddy ran to catch up with him, walking beside him under the umbrella. It was a sight, the fully bloomed gardens of the residential street and along the cobbled stone sidewalk as a background. Teddy, in bright yellow, and soaked, bouncing happily, and Draco beside him, sixty thousand feet tall in black, and for one of his strides, Teddy took three lively hops.

They ate at a bistro, stopped at the park Harry usually took Teddy to, and by the time they were nearing the house again, Teddy had gone from full of energy to a drained battery. He was sound asleep on Harry’s left shoulder, a dead weight, and had been for a good fifteen minutes on the walk back.

“You hold an umbrella well.”

Draco laughed from his throat, lips closed as they usually were when he found something funny. He didn’t reply, though, as he stood outside of the front door once Harry and Teddy were inside, shaking droplets off of the vinyl material.

Soon Teddy was free of his raincoat, standing like a small robot without instruction before Harry.

Harry tilted his head, watching the little thing waver, before finally leaning down and lifting him again. He found it so easy to be… er, tender? Yes, tender. Tender with Teddy. It hadn’t been that way at first. Never having been around kids, let alone babies, the first couple of visits with Teddy as a baby had been awkward for Harry until he’d figured out all he had to do was just… be himself. Once he had figured that there was no wrong “way,” to be, he had been able to concentrate on the most important thing, which was forming a bond.

Harry looked back at Draco, to make sure he was all set and okay, too, as he slid in through the cracked front door. His hair was wet, and therefore much darker. It clung to his cheekbones, but he was fixing it with a wayward knuckle when he saw Harry looking. He asked him what he wanted with a hand, not wanting to speak and disturb Teddy who was probably already back to being sound asleep.

Harry shrugged in return, strangely, then went wandering off with the small boy wrapped in both of his arms. He found Andromeda and Narcissa in the kitchen, of all places. They were standing, both now peering at Teddy’s chubby cheek on Harry’s shoulder. Narcissa even softly reached up with hesitant fingers, to the little hand that was wrapped in Harry’s damp shirt, and nudged it.

The hand moved under Teddy’s check, he yawned, and turned his face towards Harry’s neck.

Harry smiled at their reactions, but he understood their sentiments. 

These moments, these super quiet, tender moments, were priceless. They soothed Harry in a way he never would have known or cared to know. His right palm came up from Teddy’s calf and he rubbed his back, smoothing down his shirt to get rid of the wrinkles there, and whispered, “I’m going to put him down.”

Teddy went down easily in the parlor crib, which had been Tonks’ crib as a baby that he now knew. As Harry covered him with a light blanket, he leaned against the side of the crib, his spine bent, and he put his chin on his hands on the top of the crib. He just… watched awhile, got lost in his thoughts until he was sure Teddy was safely explording dreamland.

Back in the kitchen, Harry agreed to a nice cup of tea to get the chill off of him. He took his tea out into the hallway, finding Draco looking over the pictures that lined one of the walls. He joined him, too, checking out the pictures of the Tonks family. There was a wedding picture in the middle of it all--Remus and Tonks.

Harry knew Teddy would gaze upon the picture all his life, wondering what his parents were like.

He knew that story all too well.

“It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too. Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Harry followed him back into the drawing room, eyes following his quiet, graceful frame. He was the total opposite of Harry, really. On the creaky floors, Harry drew noise. Draco barely did. It was a skill, for certain.

Harry sat down by a window, watching the rain, and when he looked over, Draco was stacking the blocks away. They all seemed to fit together a certain way. Whatever way it was, Draco seemed familiar with how to do it.

“How’s your summer been?”

Draco finally sloped down into the chair next to Harry to watch the rain, too, “Uneventful.” He deduced thoughtfully from his own reply. “So, rather good. How’s the Ministry?”

“No idea, I didn’t apply in time for anything.”

“They’d have made the exception.”

“I didn’t want one.” He saw Draco make note of it from the corner of his eye. “Kingsley wants me to come on as an auror without going through mentorship.” He’d been at the Ministry the week before and had met with both Kingsley and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Well, “met” had been more like “been ambushed by.” It had gotten back to Kingsley that Harry did intend to work for the Ministry, but he’d had about the same reaction as Ron to the Department of Magical Architecture.

“What about the DMA?” The DMA was how Maxius and all of the Ministry members they had dealt with in the last few months had referred to it.

“Dunno, maybe in another Harry Potter’s life.” He didn’t want to talk about him or that. “How’s Saint Mungo’s?”

“I like the work.”

“Are they giving you opportunities to do healing or mostly grunt work?”

“It’s ninety-nine percent grunt work, but, well,” he cleared his throat and looked up at the sky, “that’s fine.”

Harry thought it a brave attempt at humility but commented under his breath, “Hope they actually let you do some healing before you lose interest. I would.”

Draco kind of smiled, but there was sadness in it. His eyes paused, then came down like a rushing waterfall and right to Harry for the first time. There was this surprised, friendly look on his face, and out of the blue admitted, “I’ve lost most of my original interest.”

Harry found himself leaning up over his knees with his tea cup between his hands between his knees, now, “They’re trying to weed out who will get tired and leave the program and who will persevere.”

“Is that what they’re doing?”

“Yes,” Harry returned without cracking, “I have weekly meetings where we discuss your progress.”

Draco cast a glance at him, “Punk.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that?”

“You heard me.”

Harry laughed genuinely and sat back against the back of the chair, flicking the air in Draco’s direction from where his hand landed on the arm rest. Draco was still leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs with his wrists crossed between his knees, “The scary part is, I probably could have arranged that.” He shook his head at it, at saying such a thing aloud.

“It’s a good thing it’s you who has this much power, Potter. I don’t think most could handle it quite the same way.” He seemed sincere with his assessment, even looked back to the right at Harry and held it until he got eye contact. There was a close-lipped smile on Draco’s mouth, almost despite himself, which made Harry smile and lift his eyebrows. Both smiles stayed when Malfoy looked away and back to his hands, then pulled his back up. “What are you doing with your time?”

Harry stuttered to explain, then settled on, “... er, nothing. I, uh, after my godfather died, I inherited his family home. It’s, I mean--we’ve cleaned it up here and there over the years, but it’s ancient and stores the family’s history from the last… two hundred years? Think of everything that collects in a decade, let alone twenty of them.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve managed to get through one drawing room and one bedroom.”

“Is that the Black house?”

“Yeah,” Harry considered him thoughtfully. It was strange how intertwined their lives were. It wasn’t the same for all other wizarding families, necessarily. It just seemed as though, if it had been a different life, they might have met when they were children at some event with their families. The possibilities for that were endless. Even this moment, running into each other because Draco’s mother and Andromeda were sisters. “So, uh, what’s up with…” he tried to figure out how to word it. He motioned back to the rest of the house with his head.

“Oh,” Draco realized. “It’s what it seems.”

“When did this start?”

“They sent letters to each other once a year, brief. _Andromeda, I’ve had a child. His name is Draco Lucius Malfoy. He has mother’s cheeks, like your Nymphadora. I think of you often, sister, and wish things were different._ Leading up to the war, I think the letters got a little longer as my mother looked to… undo some of her burned bridges. This is their fourth time meeting in the last year but the first time in one of their homes. First time I ever met her.“

“Does your father have siblings?”

“No.”

Harry grimaced, “So the only aunt you ever knew was…”

“Yeah,” Draco laughed unexpectedly without Harry even having to say it. Bellatrix. “She always made Christmas interesting, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll bet. I would never willingly choose my aunt over anyone else’s, except yours.”

“She gave me my first chocolate frog, so... she wasn’t all bad.”

“Er, I strongly disagree.”

“I would, too, if I were anyone else.” He straightened his spine, too, and pushed his damp hair back over to the left side of the top of his head, a hairstyle Harry had never seen on him and thoughtfully observed it like he had early in the foyer. Gone was the middle part with hair pushed evenly behind each year. This time, Malfoy caught him and didn’t rush by it. “What?”

“I don’t know, I guess… I see you looking differently than you used to, and I wonder if the same can be said for me.” He whirled his finger, attention on Draco’s hair. “You look like a different person. You could probably _pass_ for a different person.” He swore it, was briefly dazzled by just how parting his hair differently was such a drastic change. He felt at his own hair, thoughtful of the non-style it had always fallen into. He didn’t dare try to give it shape. He let the messy waves do what they wanted for the good of both parties!

“Jaco Malfoy, long lost brother of Draco,” Draco laughed a rare laugh that reached his eyes in return, remembering Teddy’s earlier pronunciation of his name. “Not sure passing for someone else is such a bad thing. Seems about the right time for a change.” He went searching in the window’s reflection to get a glimpse of himself with his hair that way. He messed with it self consciously, even in front of Harry.

Harry was amazed, and when Draco went to set it back to how it’d been, he encouraged, “Nah, keep it. It looks good.”

“It’s too posh.”

“But naturally so. Annoyingly so,” he squinted, “one might say.”

“Eh,” he didn’t sound convinced but left it, just in time for their attention to be called by the female voices coming down the foyer. Draco stood, but Harry stayed sitting, too relaxed and at ease. In a strange twist of events, this casual conversation was the most unaffected conversation he’d had with anyone around his age in the last month. With Ron being busy with work on Hermione, they rarely found time to have anything but surface level conversations.

It was nice to try to get to know someone again, even if Draco was definitely not a strange. He was a black hole of mystery and complexity for sure. But then, right on the surface, just enough to endear Harry, he was surprisingly… open.

“Love, I think we’ll get going,” Narcissa said to Draco.

Harry saw that her cheeks were pink and the wrinkles around her mouth visible. She’d been laughing. Andromeda seemed happy, too, if not cautiously so. As expected, Draco noticed these things of his mother, as well, and for a moment seemed frozen before coming to life and agreeing. He stepped forward, towering over the two women as they all said their goodbyes. He was a dutiful son, and in the moment, a believable and natural gentleman.

Narcissa gave Harry a light wave of her hand, her attention directly on him, and he did the same in return but did not get up to see them off. They headed for the foyer, to get to the fireplace and the floo, so once they’d vacated, Draco turned in the huge old wooden archway.

This time, Harry was the one who offered, “It’s good to see you, too."

“Now you’re pushing it." Harry knew he was just teasing, unable to return the same at first, but as Harry laughed, he saw the other expression lighten up, too, and Draco offered a wry smile. “You’re all right.”

“Ah,” Harry put his fingers over his chest and gave his heart a few little taps with fluttering fingertips.

Draco’s eyes rolled straight up, he straightened his shoulders, then turned and disappeared.

Harry got up and wandered out, found himself leaning against a dark-wood panel wall from a distance, arms protectively over his chest, while he watched them all say goodbye. There was nothing hesitant between the two sisters. They even shared a hug with affectionately squeezed shoulders. Their hands squeezed, too, before they finally separated. Narcissa left first, and Draco followed behind her after a light kiss to his aunt’s cheek after she cupped his much taller cheek and commented that he so had the cheeks of her mother.

It made Harry laugh to himself.

Andromeda turned, seeing him, and put his arms out, as if to say she didn’t have the words.

Harry offered her, then, with full awe, “I’m glad to see you smile.”

“Harry,” she returned, as she came nearer to him, and she took his elbow to lead him back to the kitchen, eyes particularly on his taller profile, and she whispered, once she had his attention hook, line, and sinker. She thumbed a small dimple in his cheek, “I was going to say the same _to you._ ”


	7. Chocolate Cake

“Coming,” Harry called from the second floor landing of 12 Grimmauld Place as he wiggled his tie to get it to sit correctly. The shirt felt more snug around the neck than the last time he had worn it, which was the year before. He knew that was because he’d built muscle as opposed to just weight, though there was that too. He made a mental note to go into town and get some new collared button ups the next time he had some free time.

“There he is,” Hermione smiled, catching a glimpse of him as he trotted down the steps

“We’re late,” Ginny told him in a disproving way, though there was a smile in it. She came nearer to him and settled his tie for him, lastly smoothing it. She stepped back and gave him once over, which he had already given her from top to bottom. Her shoulders scrunched up as she looked him over, maybe even a little red in her cheeks, and she and Hermione exchanged a silly laugh.

“You look nice too,” he complimented, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Am I acceptable?”

“You’ll do.”

“I mean, I could head back upstairs and fix my hair a bit,” he pretended to go turn.

Ron laughed under his breath, “Gin, your head’s gonna explode.”

“We’re already late!” She reiterated, looking for Hermione to back her up. She didn’t, rather just settled nearer to Ron with a fond smile at Harry, who stood there with his hand on the post at the bottom of the steps. And after a moment, Harry soothed Ginny, coming nearer to her while grabbing the dress robe off of the hanger where Kreacher had left it for him. “Is that new?”

“No.”

“Have you tried it on recently?”

“I know it may be hard to believe,” he told her, amused, taking her elbow and guiding her and her worry away from the stairs and towards the drawing room so they could Floo to the Ministry for the holiday party, with Ron and Hermione following their lead, “but I’m not totally inept.”

She rolled her eyes and teased back, “Prove it.”

“You’re mean sometimes,” he laughed, well used to it now, as he pulled on his dress robe. It was a little snug, just like his shirt, and yes, that meant it was a little more fitted than it had once been. He filled it out better now, though. “Acceptable?”

“Eh,” she pretended to be unconvinced which earned her a light push towards the fireplace by Hermione. “You better watch it!”

“So many threats tonight,” Hermione told her, and the two of them linked arms and disappeared.

“So we’re clear,” Ron told him, since they were alone, with a half smile on his face, finally getting a word in from having been standing back and watching the interaction. He’d had a long day at work, that Harry knew, and had been crashing at Grimmauld place for the last week because he was working late hours and needed to catch up on sleep where it was quiet… aka not at the Burrow, “I will understand now and for the rest of time if you want to leave her.”

Harry held his chest, closing his eyes tightly, “Er, I… I’ll let you know. Jerk, get in there.”

Ron took Harry’s playful nudge into the fireplace and spelled away.

Harry heard a distinct pop just as he was about to Floo away. He turned, finding Kreacher with his eyes. He was holding out a long scarf for a dress robe. It was one Harry had never seen before, which meant it had likely belonged to Regulus. It was beautiful, admittedly, and made of silk. It wasn’t totally Harry’s style, which was… plain, but it was subtle enough and festive for the occasion, made of greens and golds. And without questioning it, Harry accepted it, pulled it around his neck and rested it down the sides of his robe.

“It’s perfect."

Kreacher was beaming even as he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

The annual holiday Ministry party was being thrown in a giant ballroom which rarely ever saw the light of day, which was a shame because it was so extravagant. Too extravagant for anything EXCEPT these sort of gatherings, he supposed. There were easily a thousand wizards in attendance. It was loud, vibrant, and there was a symphony playing. There were instruments spelled to play themselves, and Harry wondered if the Ministry really couldn’t have spared the extra expense of actually hiring musicians to perform.

Harry offered his elbow to Ginny, whose gloved hand took it, wrapped around his arm, and they followed Ron and Hermione. He glanced down to his right, to Ginny. She was a stunning woman, especially when she was done up like this. Her red hair was back in some knot type of thing, leaving just her delicate facial features center stage. Her eyes were large, round, and peering up at the massive ceiling and the enchanted ornaments, lights, bows, bells, and strands of random beads and things.

They eventually got separated.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, but Harry floated around most of the evening, meeting folks, shaking hands, having in depth conversations with any number of people, new and old alike. He was surprised by himself by the time he went, parched and looking for a breath of air, at a long banquet table with ten foot tall enchanted fountains of any number of beverages.

He settled on a glass of wine like a group of witches nearby. Upon tasting it, he decided against it and slipped it behind a plant before returning for a glass of whiskey instead. It hit the spot, so he took it in his right hand and wandered off before being intercepted by Ginny and two of her coworkers from the Daily Prophet. They were all technically covering the evening’s event as reporters, which was how Ginny had gotten her invite.

Harry hadn’t told her, but he’d gotten the invite too. Just… because. He hadn’t been interested in going until she’d brought it up, so excited about it. She had been thrilled she was even allowed to bring a plus one. Harry Potter, plus one! He had liked the sound of that.

“Hi,” he greeted, observing her glittering eyes and dilated pupils. “All right?”

“Grand,” she enthused.

“Harry,” Harry introduced himself to her Daily Prophet friends after a few moments. Ginny was sort of staring at him like he was a Christmas gift himself. Oh yeah, she was tipsy! He was amused and steadied her with a hand to her lower back. He reached out with his right hand and shook both of their hands: Ken and Erica.

They made small chit-chat, at which time an announcement came that it was time to sit and eat.

Harry escorted Ginny towards their table, looking for the number sixteen, which was the table for the Daily Prophet reporters and chosen guests. It was a different table than Ron and Hermione, who were seated together at a long auror table along the side of the grand ballroom. It seemed like they were a world away when he tried to find them in the crowd. Nope, nothing.

“You’re a tasty sight.”

“ _Ginny,_ ” he groaned under his breath at the random proclamation in public

“Oh, lighten up!” She wiggled her shoulders, then hunched them slightly so her collarbones popped out and her cleavage grew. His eyes slipped right down, then slowly back to her face. She wiggled her eyebrows, and he tried all he could do not to laugh. He smiled tightly at her and cleared his throat, lifting his chin and surveying the room. “Prude.”

Harry smiled so hard and breathed out through his nose, and he glanced back at her silently.

Dinner was a long and delicious affair, and he enjoyed both the meal and the company.

“You’re coming back to mine after, right?” Harry asked her, as they danced slowly later.

“Ohhhh, are you asking me to come back after?”

“I think? You’re right, I’ve reconsidered. Forget it.”

“Your strongest charms couldn’t keep me away.”

“That’s not creepy at all.”

The event ended around midnight, but it was only about ten thirty when Harry followed Ginny out of the ballroom. He’d had a couple more whiskeys, was just… going along with the evening. The world was perfectly right, balanced. He felt good. Not tipsy, just… good. He’d reached peak intoxication, and with enough flirtation, light touches, and increasingly long stares, he’d convinced himself tonight was THE night.

There were probably a hundred people milling around outside of the ballroom, chatting more privately. He could see the heads of various Ministry departments in intense conversations over hors d'oeuvres. This brought the reason they were actually there back into the forefront of Harry’s mind. He lightly caught her palm. She spun around to him in an elegant, practiced way, as though she were an actress in a movie, and came close, her hand on his chest.

“You’re supposed to stay until the end,” he reminded her. “You have an actual assignment for this, don’t you?”

“Are you serious?”

He grimaced, thought about it for a few moments, then offered, “Yes.”

“Fine, let me go get some scoop,” she agreed, knowing it was for the best. She pulled away. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll keep busy,” he said, putting both of his hands in his dress robe pockets in a relaxed way. He watched her go before turning and surveying the room. He didn’t feel like chatting with anyone, and he could already see that attention had landed on him. He turned on his heel and headed for a table with all kinds of desserts on it. Oh boy! He rubbed his hands together while he surveyed, grabbed some sort of cake with an enormous amount of chocolate whip on it, then situated himself in a corner.

Two bites into his cake, fork upside down on his tongue, so it lay against it in a natural curve, he stopped chewing and processing the rich flavor. His attention had settled on a head slightly above the rest, half because of its height and half because of the muted color. It was unmistakable who it was, walking from a table with a glass of wine in his left hand to a group gathered around. Somewhere in Harry’s perfectly intoxicated mind, he heard himself comment that the group was probably made up of some of their former classmates and asked him to identify the others.

But, no. His eyes were only interested in studying Draco Malfoy, as though a portrait in a gallery.

What was this?

Harry immediately got a hold of himself, questioning where this was coming from. It was this deep appreciation for Malfoy, for the Malfoy he knew. It was because of old Nuanced Harry that he could stand here and appreciate Malfoy in a different way than he once had and maybe differently than he could appreciate anyone else. While he still viewed Ron and Hermione as just Ron and Hermione, Draco appeared more a man standing over there.

Putting the group in perspective, Harry started to see them all as adults, rather than former classmates. It was a sickening feeling, this passing of time that felt as though it’d come out of nowhere. But even still, his eyes landed back on the tall frame, and he realized what drawing his attention. Malfoy had changed the style of his hair to the way it had been back that day at the Tonks home. It was pushed all to the left, off of his forehead. It drew immediate attention to his face. There was no hair to distract from it or frame it. 

He smiled so hard into another bite of cake.

As in on cue, Blaise saw him through the crowd, and then there were eight pairs of eyes on Harry. Harry offered a wave with his fork in return but did not go to approach them, as he was far too busy devouring cake from his antisocial spot in the corner of the room. He turned his attention away from them, looking particularly at a fascinating sculpture of a reindeer with a house elf on its back and a sack over its shoulder. Well, now, actually, that wasn’t exactly politically correct. Who had approved this?

A calm throat, entirely too close, cleared. It sent shivers right down Harry’s spine. Oh, _okay_?

He turned on his left heel slowly, fork back on his tongue, and took in the man standing there.

They observed each other strangely for a moment, both on the verge of greeting the other, but perhaps at seeing the close and unexpected proximity, they were both thrown off.

Neither was sure how to proceed, though. Maybe it was because they were in public? Weird.

Harry finally awkwardly pulled the fork from his lips, sheepish, “Hey.”

“Hi.”

Harry smiled as he lowered the fork to his now empty ceramic plate. As if reading his thoughts, wondering where he could dispose of it, both the plate and fork disappeared from his left hand. What! He was amazed. That was good spellwork, whoever had done it. He found his expression being reflected back at him, both so impressed by it that it startled them.

“Technology,” Draco finally spoke, offering a left hand conversationally.

“Here we are, discussing advancements in spell technology like real adults at a Ministry Christmas party. Is that what I was missing over there?”

Draco looked down at his feet and smiled, teeth pulling over his bottom lip, and Harry realized he was also studying Harry’s shoes. He didn’t immediately go to reply to Harry. Only when his smile had faded, and his lip had returned from its place beneath the straight teeth, did he lift his chin. It wasn’t to look at Harry, though, but rather back of his shoulder at the group in the distance, as if to see if they were watching.

Harry followed his gaze.

They were watching.

_Oh._

Malfoy subtly set his attention back on Harry, “They were wondering why you didn’t come over, yes.”

“Ah, I see. I almost choked on my cake thinking you, uh, came over just... to say hello.”

Briefly affronted by Harry’s light humor, and also at the same time seemingly taking it as an insult that he had some other motive for coming over, Draco tilted his head from left to right while he tried to decide how to reply. He was struggling.

Harry told him in a soft way, finding his eyes. “I’m kidding. I’ll come over.”

“If you want to, but I did come over _just to say hello_.” He paused, hands behind his back, and looked back over at the table of desserts in the distance. “You can go get another piece of cake to choke on. I’ll wait.”

Harry laughed, genuinely, and gave a nod, nearly with his nose, at the reply. His face already hurt. He reached up with his right hand and grasped his cheeks. It was the alcohol too, he was sure. He focused, then, pointedly, right on Malfoy’s face. It was an ornament in and of itself, he decided. It was the kind of face that invited you to look, so he wasn’t going to… NOT look at it. Yeah, sure.

“Andromeda tells my mother all your news, and… my mother in turn tells me. She thinks we’re friends.” And while Harry commented “oh lovely,” as he rested his weight the slightest bit back against the wall with relaxed shoulders, Draco slid right on by it. “Congratulations.”

Harry squinted.

Draco tilted his head all of the way to the right, and then clarified, “On your engagement.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, feeling like an idiot. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“ _Whew,_ ” Draco breathed out from pursed lips. His entire face brightened, his eyebrows lifting. He looked from left to right, as if to check if the coast was clear. It was. His breath became laughter, and he lifted his right hand up and lightly flicked under his nose with a knuckle to calm himself. “Potter, you had better figure out a better way to react than that, my God!”

Harry had already grimaced at his own response, and agreed wholeheartedly, “I’m awful, just in general."

“Yeah, you are,” Draco smiled, looking over the top of his head, and then down to his eyes with his own, and in full, “so... very awful.”

The moment hung right there, on his slightly open dusty pink mouth. He seemed to catch something in Harry’s happy, relaxed expression that he hadn’t expected, and his lips closed. He liked this Harry. This was Draco’s Harry Potter, the one who said stupidly endearing things in the most earnest way out of the blue, which threw Draco every single time. Really, Harry was standing there with a hand to his gut while expressing his genuine thought of how awful and unworthy he was of Ginny.

Harry’s long fingers strangely clutched into his robe, bringing him back down to earth. But for the moment or five, he was comfortable enough, and intoxicated enough, to openly stare back into pale eyes without one word being exchanged. It was this tremendous moment, both always finding open doors in the other in unexpected ways, wide open light eyes. There was an unrivaled silliness brewing beneath the surface.

It was strangely sweet.

“When is it?”

Harry paused a moment, then asked with a perfect deadpan, “When is _what_?”

Draco murmured, “ _oh boy_ ,” while shifting.

Harry’s eyes immediately crinked with his scrunched cheeks, and Draco did look relieved that he’d been kidding. So Harry sobered and answered, genuinely, and his eyes left being completely absorbed in Draco’s, as if to remember there were others here. Ginny, included. Where was she? He did look around, but he could feel, and was surprised to feel, that Draco’s entire being stayed where it was, including his attention, which was still on Harry now looking elsewhere 

“This summer.”

“I respect it.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked, looking right back to him, but the light eyes moved away, and he turned his body so he was no longer squarely in front of Harry whose entire body now rested back against the wall, shoulders relaxed. It put unwelcome space between them, and this time Harry watched as the neck turned, following the skin, the muscles, and up to the jaw that was pointed elsewhere.

“Romantic love, I think,” Draco returned, decisively, looking over at the group of their former classmates who were now back in their own conversations and no longer paying attention. “If there was such a word for someone who was, well, a love atheist, I think I’d call myself that. I see people who say they are in love.” He was looking at Pansy and Blaise. “I know it exists for other people. They tell me so. I can see it. But I don’t think it exists for me in that same way, or, if it does, I’ve yet to have… seen the light.”

Never, in Harry’s entire existence, had he thought about love in remotely the same fashion.

He had barely thought to ever question love.

Had he not thought about it enough? 

He was perplexed, then, and inquired, “You don’t believe in love?”

“I know it’s real. But that,” he motioned with his head to Pansy and Blaise walking closely, holding hands, and whispering about something, “is nothing I’ve ever felt.” His eyebrows were furrowed as he watched them, and Harry wondered if Draco had feelings for Pansy enough to be looking at them with such distress at such a random moment. But then he seemed to realize where he was. He fixed his face. “Fire whiskey.”

Harry smiled, then, understanding all at once, “You went pretty deep there.”

“Oh yes, I’m all sorts of lonely and emotionally crippled.”

“Hey, me too,” and there was that thumbs up again.

Draco stared at him a moment, then cracked. His face came alive, cheeks pinched, nostrils flared, teeth showing, and an unexpected dimple. Someone walking by even stopped to do a double take, as if to make SURE he wasn’t laughing at her. He apologized with just a hand, to assure her it was nothing, before squarely his body back towards Harry’s. His body language had changed in just that one moment, loosened, and happy, and his attention was on Harry’s chest but Harry could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“You are awful. You’re terrible. You’re the worst,” Draco told him, looking all over his face now.

Harry was overwhelmed. His face hurt. His glasses had to be readjusted, so he fixed them with just a nudge of his fingertip. He almost felt embarrassed, his chest tight all of the sudden, and gave a sober nod of agreement of Draco’s assessment of him, “The worst.”

They lapsed into silence, Draco standing in front of him at an appropriate distance away.

They were right in each other’s eyes, though, in appreciation and silent solidarity.

“You look really good.”

Malfoy didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate, just smiled in the slowest way, and in a lower version of his usually calm tone, replied, “That’s… an unexpected thing for you to have noticed… or said… aloud… to _me_.”

And because there was no reason not to, and it was complex, there was whiskey involved, and surprising confidence about the stability to even be able to say such a thing, the next words came out simply, “I notice you, is all.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Draco closed his left eye, as if to check if this was Harry, as if to check if this was an impostor. Upon finding that it was not, there was a bit of a half laugh, half scoff, and Draco took a small step back, though still observing Harry, now with great interest, maybe hesitation. He had both eyes squinted, but Harry was the opposite.

“Well,” Draco managed, and once again, could only say, “ _okay_. Goodnight, then.”

“Great night.”

Malfoy laughed, despite himself, and as he turned away, Harry could see him rubbing his face.

Halfway back to the group, Draco looked back at him in full.

Harry’s face felt like it was going to break, and he laughed, aloud, for the first time, with a big smile. Haha, he laughed to himself, and only because Malfoy was at a safe enough distance for it to be safe to have done so. He was pretty sure--and had to check in with his brain--that he had flirted with the lad.

It had felt more friendly and playful, of course, but there was some underlying truth there.

Harry made a mental note to panic and check in with Nuanced Harry in the morning, once whiskey Harry had had his night. Whiskey Harry, right. Where was Ginny again? Right, Ginny. He looked around, saw her mingling with the Department of Magical Artifacts, and sighed. The only way to make the time pass was to mingle, which he returned to.

They left the event at the same time as everyone else.

Horny, whiskey Harry had sobered.

Ginny was drunk. Sweet, still, but a fucking mess and all over him.

He finally had to pace her away from him and sit her down on his bed, “Just… go to sleep, hmm?”

“But we were supposed to do the thing.”

“The thing can wait,” Harry encouraged, and by some miracle she didn’t argue.

He went and took a shower, and when he came back, she was sound asleep.

He sat down at the desk in front of the windows that looked out onto the dimly lit street below. It lit up his room just enough to illuminate some of the bits and pieces he had on the surface below. There were all sorts of things, his tickets to both his first Quidditch World Cup and the one that summer he’d attended with the Weasleys, Hermione, and Neville. There were clippings of things, a couple of receipts, and then more sentimental items tucked into a box, like notes from Sirius, McGonagall, and others. On the desk, a badge of the Ministry of Architecture.

He found himself smiling, which was unusual when he was truly alone, and he pulled it towards him. He was supposed to start Auror training officially after the first of the year, which was only in a couple of weeks’ time. There was still a longing for the Department of Architecture inside of him, though. He’d have to just sort of keep that to himself.

He put the badge down and looked at the piece of paper below it. He bent his finger, tapped his fingertip down on it, almost accusingly, and then pulled it all of the way towards him to look at the slanted writing.

_Harry,_

_Thanks._

_Have a nice holiday._

He gave a wry laugh to the room, thinking back on how far they had come. He lifted his attention to the box of letters and sorted through it until he found what he was looking for, which was Draco’s original letter to him… how long ago? It seemed like a long time ago. It’d been years, he told himself just as he came across it. He pulled it out slowly, elbows bent on the desk, spelled on the light on the wall next to him, and read over the letter.

He was strangely distressed.

“Kreacher?”

“Master?” Kreacher asked when he popped into the room. He corrected himself at once. “Harry Potter, sir?”

Harry was too tired to chide him on having called him Master, “Thank you for the scarf. I had many compliments on it.” He motioned to where he had hung it on the back of his door. Meanwhile, his dress robes sat in a pile in the corner. He watched Kreacher collect the scarf with such care, found it moving and was thoughtful about it. “I think I’d like to have a holiday party--and I’ll have it catered. I know you won’t want to, but I’d love you to come as a guest.”

“Never.”

“I know, I know,” Harry returned, but he knew Kreacher appreciated the invitation. “Would that be all right with you?”

“Your house.”

“It’s your house too."

Kreacher turned.

Harry looked back, openly, so Kreacher understood that he meant it.

Kreacher gave a nod, ears lowered, and then walked out with the scarf carefully folded.

“Sometimes I think you love him more than me.”

Harry laughed at the small voice from the bed, and he hummed in a thoughtful way. His eyes moved back to the letter between his fingers. He gazed at it appreciatively before folding it back up and placing it back between other letters in the unfinished wooden box. He spelled the light off and moved to the bed. He climbed over her, hopping on all fours, and collapsed down beside her after joining her under the covers. He gave her a squeeze for a few long moments, a couple of kisses, and then rolled a good two feet away because he was a hot sleeper. Cuddling made him sweat. Neither of them wanted that.

Harry lay there on his back, well after Ginny had fallen asleep, staring into the darkness.

The next morning, Saturday, Ginny stayed in bed well after Harry had gone for his frigid morning run around the neighborhood, grabbed a little breakfast, and returned. Kreacher immediately appeared, as soon as he heard the door was open, and informed Harry that Ginny was ill. He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and to his open bedroom door.

“Gin, what’s wrong?” He came in calmer, observing her state.

“I tried to stand but fell over. I can’t find my balance.”

She was well used to drinking, so Harry knew this wasn’t from alcohol or a hangover.

“Should we call your mediwizard?”

“I tried, no one answered.”

“St. Mungo’s?”

She groaned, holding her neck with her dainty pale palm, “No, I hate going there. Maybe if I just rest… I’ll just rest. I’ll be fine.” She saw the look on his face. He tilted it. “I’m fine.”

“Let me call Malfoy, maybe he’s available.” She shook her head. “If we went, and he was working, you would probably see him first anyway. This is what he does there, remedial triage. Do you know anyone else working at that level at St. Mungo’s?”

“Don’t panic him.”

“I won’t.”

Harry was panicked, though. He moved out of the room and privately took the steps down to the drawing room. Kreacher was standing by the fireplace. There was guilt on his face, and Harry slowed to a shocked halt when the fireplace lit up in green. Out stepped who he had been headed down to call via Floo. He had a black bag over his shoulder, but his usual all-black, fitted sweater attire was gone, and in its black relaxed black pants, and a worn, thin, baggy once-black t-shirt with rolled up sleeves. He didn’t wear shoes, rather some sort of house slippers. 

He’d come quickly.

Draco did a double-take at him. He was still in his joggers, thermal shirt, vest, and red knit hat from his jog. The other human in the room seemed to put it together but then was already walking out of the room as if he had any idea where he was going...

The room had seemed suddenly too small for the both of them.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

Kreacher seemed relieved.

“Hi, uh--did he explain?” Harry followed Draco out of his own drawing room and into the foyer. The pale eyes were all over this place. It seemed to be something of a treasure island for him as he peered over the portraits of Blacks from times past still on the foyer wall. Harry had agreed to let Kreacher keep some of them up once the foyer had been painted to that shocking and promised bright white. There, now, in the morning, was a glorious Christmas tree that had seemed huge in the lot he’d picked it from but was trumped by the giant ceilings. It looked small.

“A little,” Draco finally spoke, tearing his eyes away from the empty tree to find Harry halfway up the steps.

“She’s lost her, um--her equilibrium, I think.”

Draco wordlessly followed him into the room.

Harry stood at the corner end of the bed as Draco approached.

Ginny peeked open an eye.

“Hello,” Draco offered, resting his bag down on the floor in front of him. He ran through a series, just rattled them off of his tongue, of spells to take her vitals. Next to him, in a notebook, a Quick Quotes quill, which looked to be a medical version, was scratching away the numbers that appeared beside her in various places. “Your vitals are all in range, though you do have a slight temperature at ninety nine. You might want to check in with your mediwizard around your cholesterol levels at your next visit, though. These readings can only tell us so much but doing labs on your blood will give a better picture.”

Ginny just sat there, her back to the pillows, watching him the same way Harry was.

He had a professional yet warm bedside manner. It summed him up well.

After peering in her ear with a fancy tool, he murmured, “aha,” mostly to himself. He pulled away, sanitized the tool with a spell, and as he was coming back up from placing it in his bag, he said, “You have an aggressive inner ear infection.” He pulled open a kit and produced a sealed potion in a small square vial. He had about twenty of them. “We could use spells, but research indicates an infection is more likely to come back than if we treat with traditional antibiotic tonics. So, slower than you’d probably like. Effective, though.” He put six more vials out on the bedside table. “One each morning for the next week, preferably in the morning and with a meal.”

“I-I’ll make you something,” Harry told her when she’d looked to him with a sugary sweet smile.

Draco looked at him, too, but his glance lingered on the way Harry stood, left arm across his chest, his left palm holding his right elbow, supporting it while it held his chin. He was the picture of worry. Perhaps he took something out of it, but Harry didn't have a chance to inquire.

He was packing up his bag and pulling on his shoulder in about a second, “Any questions about the antibiotics, or if you have a reaction, give me a Floo. Otherwise, you should be back on your feet by tomorrow morning. If symptoms worsen, call your Mediwizard.”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand with both of hers. “Do you always make house calls?”

“Never.”

Ginny lifted her eyebrows and looked to Harry knowingly. Draco did not. Refused to, maybe.

Harry grimaced to himself.

“If there’s nothing else, I will get back to having tea with my mother. An exciting Saturday indeed.”

Ginny thought he was kidding, but Harry knew otherwise, and followed him and his bag, this time, in something of a rush, out into the hallway and down the stairs in silence. He followed the tall frame back into the drawing room, looking at the backs of his pale, toned arms. It was incredibly unnerving to see the skin of his arms. It struck Harry, then, that he did not see a Dark Mark. He searched for it subtly, to get a better view, but diverted his eyes when Draco turned.

Harry was cautious, kept a distance, because... something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

“She’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” Nope, it didn’t make any impact at all on the man in front of him. He gave some robotic automatic nod of his head and pivoted to leave. Harry was frustrated, though not entirely sure why, and tried to convey, again. “Malfoy _, thank you_.”

“Ten minutes. It was nothing.”

“I didn’t even think… um, I didn’t think, I suppose. I put you in an awkward position. I’m sorry.”

Draco stared at him with his eyes narrowed just the smallest bit so his eyelashes sharply framed his irises, “I wasn’t feeling obligated to come, if that’s what you think. It wasn’t you who summoned me.”

“True.” He tested the water, though hesitantly. “Do you want some lunch?”

“What?”

“Do you want to stay for lunch?”

“No, I don’t particularly want to have lunch.”

“Okay.” Harry was lost. “I crossed a boundary. I don’t know where, but I did.”

“There are no boundaries,” this exasperated sentence left Malfoy’s mouth as he turned from the fireplace, his forehead wrinkled. “ _Stop_ , Potter.”

Harry digressed, putting his hands slightly up at his sides in surrender.

“We’re not friends.”

Why did he have to go there? What had happened? Why was it so black and white all of the sudden? Maybe it wasn’t Harry who was “off” today. He considered this, regretted whatever it was he might have done for all of the fun soft shades between black and white to have fallen away. Was it the night before? It couldn’t have been that, though. Right? That’d been harmless.

Torn on how to take it, and torn on how to reply, Harry pressed his teeth together and breathed out through his lips. Ouch. He pushed the rational, nuanced Harry from his mind, irritated, “Come on, what’s the point of saying that? You know that’s not true.”

“Thank you for reminding me why I don’t make house calls.”

“Ha,” Harry said, though with no humor or amusement, because he wasn’t enchanted by the clear brush off. Draco gave him one last weary look before he used some of Harry’s Floo powder and returned home. This left the nineteen year old standing in the drawing room with his hands down at his sides, head slightly forward with his mouth genuinely open, having been forming words. 

_Ouch._

He went to the kitchen to get started on making Ginny something to eat, but he was in a dire mood for the rest of the day. He didn’t try to hide it, either, because they’d worked so hard to get where they were. That was something he had prided both of them on, having decided some time ago it was the most adult and complex relationship in his life. They’d overcome so much, or so he had thought. He was mad at himself, as much as he tried to chalk it up to maybe Malfoy being in a bad mood about something else. That may have been the logical thing to think, but Harry knew better, because that “we’re not friends” jibe hit him right where it had been targeted to.

Harry had, well, fucked up.


	8. Evergreen & Cedar

The days leading up to Christmas were a whirlwind between get togethers, prepping for auror training, and finishing up some projects around the house. He had taken a quick trip to Diagon Alley to pick up a container of magical paint for the bathroom just off the foyer of Grimmauld Place and run into Andromeda and Teddy all bundled up on the way out. They were on their way to meet Narcissa for lunch at a little cafe he’d never heard of before. He politely declined the invitation and instead extended one of his own: to come attend his first official New Year's Eve party. 

“Done deal,” she smiled warmly without even having to stop to think about it. “I’ll be in touch about what I can bring.”

He didn’t even blink, “A... dish of your brownies would probably be, uh... _fine_. Just fine.” As if he did not want them. Oh, he wanted them! He’d eat them all himself, if he could.

She beamed, “Say no more. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” He checked in with his appetite, thinking it over. She tried to sway him. “I think Draco may have accompanied her.”

“Best I take a rain check, then.”

“Why is that, dear? I thought you two got along.”

“We do… well, we did. I don’t know, actually.”

She didn’t understand.

“It’s for the best.”

He kissed her cheek and took his time embracing her, then leaned down and wrapped Teddy’s bundled body up in a big hug and squeezed him for a few long seconds, feeling the small hands tightly clutching his shoulders in return. As he loosened his arms, he fixed the wayward hat, centering it back on the fluffy head of hair. He said nothing, didn’t try to make small talk or conversation.

Teddy settled into his eyes in return, all wide eyed innocence and curiosity.

With a bent knuckle, Harry softly nudged his cheek, even with him, and soothed, “l'll see you tomorrow night,” when he’d stop over Christmas Eve to visit. He got another hug, then stood up and walked with them until he got to his intended shop. He kept his hand on Teddy’s head the entire time, much to Teddy’s amusement and frustration. He kept trying to turn and bite Harry’s hand in a playful way, though Harry always pulled it away just in time.

Harry ended up walking with them to the cafe, The Bird’s Nest, and said his goodbyes at the door. Once they were inside, he waited a moment and glanced in after them. He couldn’t see anything, so he made his way on by the front windows to continue his journey home with the paint can in a bag hanging from his left hand. He glanced in, saw that their table was right near the front, near that very window, and that Narcissa was already there.

Indeed, it seemed Draco was, as well.

Though his back was turned, somehow he became aware of Harry’s presence. His head and neck rotated, his profile viewable, as if to just do a check. When it seemed Harry was actually there, he did a double-take and steadied his shoulders to get a look in return. It wasn’t the clearest view, but there was a good couple of seconds of eye contact before Harry left the frame of the window and turned the corner onto the main alley to get back to the Leaky Cauldron. He was slightly relieved that he hadn’t been set on fire by the gaze, because that’s how he had been chalking it up in his head for the past week.

When Harry got home, he walked into the kitchen where Ginny and Hermione were flipping through a wedding catalog. He glimpsed a few moving images of a bride swishing around in a very white gown. He commented that he thought it was nice but they both did an over-dramatic gag, so he continued on to his journey over to the stove.

“Malfoy stopped by right after you left.”

“Sorry?” Harry turned. 

“He was checking in on me,” Ginny clarified. “It’s been a full week since I started the tonic.”

“Oh... right. Did he say you’re in the clear?”

“He did.”

“And he left a fancy business card for you,” Hermione added, snapping as she reminded herself to tell him. She motioned to the cupboard where there was a collection of menus, pieces of scrap paper, and other small trinkets that didn’t really have any other home. There was a black business card there with the St. Mungo’s brand on it, and when he lifted it, the brand disappeared and Draco’s name appeared, with the title “Remedial Emergency Triage.”

“Look at that,” Harry genuinely smiled, feeling a strange surge of pride. “Malfoy’s official, huh?”

They were too busy ignoring him now, bored with him, and as he went to put the card back down, he happened to lightly flip to the other side to see what was written there. There was writing--not gold script, no, but elegant right-slanting narrow letters he knew nearly as well as the “I must not tell lies” scars on his hand. In his fingertips, he flipped the card rightside up.

_I’m sorry (to have missed you)._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco_

The smile on his face settled down into something less noticeable. He leaned against the cabinet and counter then, lifting the card higher to observe it. He understood the sentiment, knew this was an apology for that morning a week ago.

The amount of relief he felt was not surprising, nor even the idea of ever receiving an apology note (or business card...) from Draco, at least not anymore. What was surprising, though, was the acknowledgment that what he made of their relationship was not only on his end. Malfoy had thought enough of their struggle to become civil to reach out, to leave even just a little note to make nice. Perhaps, if he did know Harry at all by now, which clearly he did, he may have known Harry had been thrown for a loop.

Was he thinking too much about it? Maybe. But just like that, some part of his soul that had been burdened over the last week just melted away. He felt it physically lift. He walked over to the board near the newly installed telephone, right next to a list of important numbers and two other business cards--Maxius and the head of the Auror Department. He pinned Draco’s business card there proudly and stood back.

“Really, right in the center of the board?” Ginny inquired, standing next to him and folding her arms to observe it too.

Harry laughed and shrugged, easily, without the smallest bit of concern as Hermione came over too, “For now.” And luckily he had kept it mostly to himself, over the last week, about _why_ he had been in such a dire mood. He had come around a couple of days before, but now here he was, beaming at a business card. He even tapped next to it on the board and looked back to the two women and their contrasting expressions: Ginny total confusion, Hermione total understanding.

Hermione got it.

Harry could see on her face that she understood this in a different way.

“He’s really trying to make a life for himself,” as opposed to relying on his family’s wealth, or estate, or name. It would have been so easy for him to do what his father had done, to just take up the family fortune and shut himself away from the public as if to be forgotten.

“It is impressive,” Hermione finally gave Harry, too, with a softened expression. “To go from mentorship into a full apprenticeship is a big deal, especially in the medical realm. He was always top of class right next to me, so it’s not surprising from that angle.” And after Ginny turned away to go back to the table and her tea, Hermione came in closer next to Harry and crossed her arms over her chest while she watched him look at the card.

He turned his head, his eyes bright.

“You’re proud of him.”

“Yeah.” Her hand came out to his arm, and he felt her grip tighten around his forearm. “I really am.”

“Oh Harry,” she softly said in response, as if moved, holding his gaze, before her hand fell away. His reaction to Malfoy’s success impacted Hermione in return. She was happy to depart, though, back to Ginny and their lively conversation, but there was this tiny moment of sharing the understanding of what it meant for her, too. She didn’t have to like Malfoy, or forgive him, but Harry had needed to. It had made Harry whole, which enabled him to move on.

Man, being an adult--and in a post-war world, too--was no joke.

Harry watched her walk away, thought of her struggles and concerns and the way she and Ginny were already ruling out a wedding dress on a page. He smiled to himself, then looked back at the business card, grabbed his can of paint, and went back to his chore for the afternoon, which was painting the bathroom. And around dinner, in the silent kitchen, he realized he hadn’t seen Kreacher since early that morning. Instead of calling for him, though, Harry walked over and down a narrow hallway near the cupboard and Kreacher’s den. He knocked on the door quietly with his knuckles, keeping his ear near the door.

There was a small shuffling, so he stepped back.

The door slowly came open, and looking up at him was a pair of big black eyes. Ears down, “Harry Potter?”

He immediately crouched down when he saw that the being was ill, “Kreacher, what’s wrong?”

“Kreacher only has a _cold._ ”

“Can I get you anything? Soup?” He got a glare. _Okay._ Fine. He bit back a sigh of frustration, because that would help nothing. It would aggravate Kreacher, if anything. He didn’t want to overreact and embarrass Kreacher, either. It was a careful dance Harry had to do with Kreacher, especially in a situation such as this when Kreacher was already so out of his element with Harry coming to check on him. “If I see you doing _anything_ around the house other than getting yourself tea or food between now and Boxing Day, we’re going to have to have a long talk. And we both hate long talks.”

Kreacher’s eyes narrowed.

Harry smiled in return, unable to help it, and let Kreacher close the door in his face.

“Great talk,” Harry said into the door with his hand on the knob as he stood. He sobered, though, and gave the door a light pat with his hand. “I hope you feel better, Kreacher.” He left and moved back out into the kitchen, grabbed a drink, and returned to painting until the kitchen was full of people and loud enough to make him come see what the commotion was--Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and Neville! Needless to say, painting was forgotten in favor of a fun night with his closest friends in the drawing room, sipping on various alcoholic beverages and recalling old school memories.

Christmas Eve morning, bright and early, on the way back from the bathroom, Harry heard clanging from downstairs. He was half asleep, floating down the grand staircase, nursing a light headache from the night before and trying to relieve the tension there by squeezing the back of his head with a hand. He followed the noise, but instead of entering the kitchen, he peeked around the doorframe in a cautious way.

There were two house elves, but neither was Kreacher. He recognized them. They’d both been at Hogwarts. He knew their names somewhere in the back of his mind, but it was too early to recall anything other than his own name. He stumbled into the kitchen after lightly knocking on the dark wood of the doorframe to announce his arrival and avoid startling them into early graves.

They were cooking at the kitchen island, whipping something up on the stove.

They were saying so many things at once, so he held a hand up, having only just made out a few words, “You’re here for Kreacher.” They agreed nervously. “How did you know to come?”

“He called for us.”

“Okay. It’s okay, really. It’s okay,” he stopped one from going to apologize again. “Thank you for coming.” He was already down the narrow hallway, openly worried. He knocked on the door again, but there was no answer, so he carefully began to turn it. He half expected to be hexed, truth be told, but then peered in. It looked different from the last time he had seen it. It was more organized and rather neat. But dark. Oh so dark.

Harry opened the door all of the way so the light from the hallway streamed in.

Kreacher was on his cot. His eyes were open, and he was looking at Harry in a far-away daze. If this had been any other morning, he would have cursed Harry in more ways than one. He would have been on his feet at the sound of a knock. Not this morning. He was gravely ill. The color was completely gone from his face, all signs of warmth and life beneath his skin absolved. If he wouldn’t have blinked just then, Harry would have assumed the worst.

Harry said nothing, crouched down just slightly to get into the room. It was not a full sized room, and the ceiling was just slightly high enough for him to stand on his bare feet, so probably a strict six feet. He walked over the five feet to the cot, quietly, and got onto his knees as he neared it. He didn’t want to upset Kreacher and would leave if that was what he wanted.

He was wide awake now.

Kreacher’s eyes tracked his movements.

Harry lifted a hand, carefully, and by some miracle Kreacher let him feel his forehead. Frigid. Not good. But Harry’s hand didn’t immediately pull away, because he saw that the warmth had an impact and Kreacher’s eyes fluttered tiredly to a close and stayed that way. He kept his hand there for a few moments more before sliding it down the side of the lumpy face to warm his cheek too. He watched over the face.

One of the house elves came in, and she stood over Harry’s shoulder with a warm cloth. He took it from her, though she was shocked, and upon glancing at her in thanks, he realized who it was. It was Ms. Middy! She was the house elf who had always, almost hilariously, made sure Draco always had his fair share of nutritional goods. He didn’t know what the full story was, because Draco had been cagey about it. He greeted her softly by her name and apologized for not having said good morning earlier.

“What are we going to do?” Middy asked.

“Middy, when you’re ill, who do you call? Is it a normal mediwizard?”

“Harry Potter, sir, I don’t know. I never heard of that.”

Harry looked back to Kreacher, helpless, “I--I guess we have to take him to St. Mungo’s. That’s a place for all magical creatures.”

Kreacher heard that, and his eyes came open. That was his refusal, his disagreement.

“Harry Potter, sir, may I ask Mr. Draco?"

Harry was very confused, and after a moment, realized, “Middy, were you raised at Malfoy Manor?” It explained everything, really. He didn’t know why he hadn’t put that together earlier. He had never seen her in SERVICE to Hogwarts, only ever Draco particularly. Had she come to Hogwarts between meals, sometimes, just to make sure Draco was eating? His mind was blown, but he had no time to think about that now. “Yes, please go get Draco, Middy. I would be extremely,” and she popped out of existence, “grateful.”

He looked away from the empty space.

Kreacher was staring at him, but instead of defending himself, Harry gently rested the warm cloth on his forehead. His eyes closed again, so Harry took that as a sign that Kreacher wasn’t too pissed at him. He saw there until he heard shuffling and talking come from down the narrow hallway. He turned and looked over his right shoulder, hearing Middy. She stayed in the hallway, but she was motioning someone else in. Someone who had to crouch a full foot to get into the room. Unlike Harry, the other man could not stand at his full height, which was likely six one or six two. He had his bag between his hands as he came over.

Harry moved over to the left to make way for Draco. He looked up to the right, though, and for a moment lost his breath, lastly managing, “Hey.”

Draco’s eyes came away from Kreacher to only briefly return the eye contact, and genuinely, “Hi.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome.”

Draco was already on his knees. His bag was down to the right. He leaned in closer to Kreacher. He said some sort of incantation and gave a wave of his wand. The little numbers--vitals, Harry supposed by now--began to pop up all around Kreacher. Draco wasn’t scribbling to write everything down, only appeared to be concerned with a set of numbers that appeared next to Kreacher’s shoulder.

Harry couldn’t see anything, but he could tell Kreacher’s eyes had come open because Draco greeted him, was explaining to him what he was doing, and after having asked him to relax three times, finally chided him because he could see by the numbers that Kreacher was not relaxing. There was a lightness in his voice that perhaps Kreacher reacted to. After all, this wasn’t Harry looking after him. This was Draco, someone specifically there to look in on him.

Harry eventually sat on his butt, pulling his knees up in silence, watching and listening.

Draco was quietly talking to Kreacher, right to his face, and the numbers went away. As he turned towards Harry, his waist twisting, Harry perked up and got up, too, taking his cue. He motioned out into the hallway, so Harry went and stood with Ms. Middy, who was nervously wringing her hands, until they were joined by Draco who had some sort of black leather kit in his hands.

Ms. Middy excused herself and went in to be with Kreacher with a warm cloth.

Draco finally turned towards Harry who was about to jump out of his skin. They stood tall, now, in the bright of the early morning light streaming in from the end of the hallway. Draco’s pale eyes were nearly an ice color, if ice had a color, and Harry only noticed that particularly because they were looking everywhere EXCEPT for back into Harry’s for a solid five seconds.

Out of nowhere, he felt a touch on his upper arm, his bare upper arm, and he was being guided away from where they’d been standing. Draco was close as he guided him around the corner, saying with certainty once they were out of earshot, “He’s in the end stage of advanced lung cancer. The best I can do is try to make him comfortable.”

Harry stopped, turning to stare in response and trying to process what he meant.

Draco turned towards him, too, with full eye contact, and tried to find words before settling on, “I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t believe he’ll make it through tonight.” His hand had left Harry’s arm but it returned right to where it had been before on the back of his arm, finding the low point from the curve of his tricep to the heel of his elbow. His touch was meant to be affectionate, to offer condolence, and Harry took it wholeheartedly. He diverted his attention to the rest of the kitchen as they entered there, slowly, and unexpectedly found his four friends and the other house elf--Archie, he remembered--looking over and maybe waiting for news.

Harry looked right back into Malfoy’s face, then slowly gave a nod of understanding. His voice cracked as he said, “Okay.” His right hand came up to hold his neck as he cleared his throat. Even when he did this, Malfoy’s touch stayed on the back of his arm, watching Harry in return. “How can I--what do I need to do?”

“Nothing, right now. I gave him something to help him sleep for a couple of hours. Once he’s awake, perhaps sit with him awhile. He knows he’s dying.”

Hearing the words, Harry breathed out a huge breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His hand came down, too, and at that time the warm touch did fall away from the back of his arm. They’d been speaking privately, too closely and too far away for the others to have heard, and for the moment, Harry was glad. He turned more towards Draco, facing him and shouldering the rest of the room out, so he could concentrate on the moment. He was, well… devastated. He lifted both hands, applying pressure with his thumbs to his cheekbones before grasping his face and giving it a full rub just to sort of shake himself out of it.

“Okay, um,” he tried, finding himself in the big pale eyes and forgetting the strength to turn and set the day in motion. Oh. Instead, he capitulated to the unexpected challenge of not taking control of the moment. He didn’t need to be. All he needed to do was go sit with Kreacher for awhile, and he could let Malfoy, a professional, handle Kreacher’s care, and his friends handle everything else. “Yeah… yeah. Okay.”

“Good,” Draco softly praised the outcome of the silent conversation. “I will need different charms and tonics from St. Mungo’s and will put in proper paperwork to do this the correct way. When I return, I may have another practitioner with me to confirm my diagnosis and help administer treatment.”

Harry just nodded his total appreciation and thanks, unable to form the words just yet.

“Here,” Ron’s voice gently interrupted, grasping Harry on his bare shoulder. It was only at this moment that Harry realized he was still shirtless. It had been the last thing on his mind. And there was Ron, offering out a sweater to him. And Harry took it, dazed, and threaded it up and pulled it over his head, his arms through, and he tugged it down.

“How’s it looking?” Ron asked Draco, too, looking for his diagnosis. It was clearly a grim conversation.

“He’s dying,” Harry answered quietly for Draco, who hadn’t gone to speak.

“Oh no... oh mate,” Ron managed, not having been expecting that, and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Do you want us to leave?”

“No--I… if you want,” Harry managed. “I think I’ll just be in with him the rest of the day, though. I’ll have to Floo Andromeda, let her know I won’t be over tonight.” He felt guilty, could see Teddy’s disappointment clearly in his mind’s eye. He turned, remembering, from Ron, and saw Malfoy’s retreating figure into the light of the hallway into the foyer, to get back to the drawing room. This morning had been much the same as the last time he’d popped up here just a little over a week ago, early in the morning, at the request of a house elf. This time he at least wore shoes, and gone was the short sleeved t-shirt, replaced by a black sweater--one looser than he’d ever likely show up in anywhere else, but perhaps comfortable enough to have slept in.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stayed, but Harry kept to himself mostly. He went to check in on Kreacher a couple of times, but he was sound asleep. He paced around in the drawing room, walking around the old leather couch that must have weighed a literal ton, trying to waste time. He was stressed, and worried, and felt like there was a brick sitting at the top of his stomach. He kept touching it, but eventually he looked around at the room. It was very much the same as it had always been.

It was where Kreacher should have been resting, not in his cot.

He called for Ron up the stairs, and Hermione came down. They assessed the best way to move him, and eventually decided against magic. Harry lifted Kreacher carefully out of his cot, and behind him, Ron lifted the old blankets and coverings at Harry’s request. Kreacher was attached to his things, to his den, to his former masters, and Harry wanted to best honor that. He took him out to the drawing room and they fixed him up on the couch real good.

Ron started the fire, in silence, once they had pushed the couch closer to it, for warmth, while Harry adjusted the blankets and pillows. He went back to Kreacher’s den and found the little picture frame he kept next to his cot. It had regulus on one side of the frame and a picture of the family, including Sirius, in the other. He set it on the fireplace mantle where Kreacher may have easily seen once his eyes opened.

Ron left the room eventually, went back upstairs with Hermione.

Harry sat on the hearth, leaned over his knees, until he heard a small tiff.

Kreacher’s eyes had come open. They had landed exactly on the mantle, then fallen to Harry beneath it. And so Harry stared back at him a moment before putting his weight on his feet. He never fully stood, didn’t make his spine straight, because he was soon next to Kreacher, on his knees. He adjusted the blanket a bit for him, glad that he could see a rare bit of content on the face.

“Water?” Harry softly asked, lifting the mug with a straw, and Kreacher accepted, struggling to sip. But he latched on and got a couple of gulps in. And once he seemed done, Harry put the mug back down on the table. He didn’t know what to say, instead unexpectedly choking down a lump in his throat, holding back the heat from jumping into his eyes. He followed Kreacher’s back to the mantle, to the pictures there, so Harry stood slowly and walked over. He gently lifted the frames and brought them over.

Kreacher could barely move his arms from under the covers.

Harry realized, pulling them back and helping him without thinking about it. He freed the arms, covering his chest back up to keep his body temperature up, even with the fireplace roaring and nearly burning Harry’s back. He took the pictures out of the frames, since Kreacher was slightly elevated, and put them in his hands with his own, enclosing the fingers around the bottoms of the pictures where Kreacher’s eyes were.

They were filled with tears.

Harry could no longer suppress his own, but at least managed to swallow down the knot.

“Thank you,” Kreacher just barely managed, of the obvious, of being out here, of the fireplace, of the pictures. And Harry just nodded, watching him. He didn’t need to say anything just yet. He knew they had a little time, just wanted Kreacher to rest with his pictures. He got him another sip of water before Kreacher began to doze again.

The sound of flames gusting announced Draco’s arrival.

Harry turned his upper body, wondering if he’d brought anyone else. He hadn’t. He was in his full work attire now, though, because he’d had to go in and do the proper paperwork, as he’d said before. He had a sealed pouch with him, stepping off of the heath with just his right foot as the room came into view. The left foot slowly came down. He was just a foot from Harry, and his presence immediately adjusted to fit the atmosphere of this room from the likely chaotic atmosphere of St. Mungo’s where he had come from.

This was a silent, warm environment, and right there in front of the fire.

Draco put the pouch down beside his medical bag, which Harry had brought out earlier.

“He woke up, he’s had a bit of water,” Harry whispered. “Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect.” He sat down on the hearth behind and to the right of Harry. He just sat there, silent.

Harry turned and looked back, finally. He moved off of his knees, his fingertips pressing down all of his weight on the floor as he rose from his crossed ankles. He moved back the foot onto the hearth, too, and back to the roaring heat of the fireplace, his arm colliding without grace against Malfoy’s, but he didn’t really care. He just gave a shrug about it, but Malfoy hadn’t exactly noticed or, if he had, hadn’t thought anything of it enough to show a reaction.

Harry leaned forward over his knees again, elbows on them, watching the sleeping creature. It may have been the heat of the fireplace, or maybe it was having the company next to him, or maybe it was everything really settling in, but he was in something of a lull after awhile, face in his hands. He was lost in his thoughts, comfortable there, and would occasionally glance over at Kreacher. He felt Draco move beside him, pulling away the weight that had been pressed and matching beside Harry’s thigh and all of the way down to their legs to their feet. The touch had been so still for minutes on end that he hadn’t even realized they’d still been touching.

Kreacher’s eyes were open.

Harry straightened his spine, watching as Draco sat on his knees next to him, softly talking to him. This time, when he started to take vitals, his Quick Quotes quill was scribbling in an official notepad off to the right side of the couch. It seemed he had spelled it to silent, as well, because the scratching of the quill top against the parchment became obsolete.

Harry watched, deeply grateful of the bedside manner, of the respect Kreacher was shown not just because he was a house elf but because he clearly prided himself on that, on not needing any wizard to come and look after him, and by not being over the top about it, Draco showed him that he respected him. He told him what he was doing when he did it, and Harry could see that Kreacher was very at ease. And, in some quiet place of his mind, Harry was grateful that it was a pureblood wizard taking care of him ONLY because it saved any tension on Kreacher’s part and saved any poor non-pure-blood mediwizard from nasty glares from Kreacher despite trying to care for him.

Kreacher went back to sleep for awhile, and the two nineteen year olds sat in silence on the hearth again, until Harry took a small glimpse from the corners of his eyes to the right. He could see the profile. It was down, looking at his hands, so Harry looked at them, too, and finally whispered, “Can you teach me what to do? You don’t have to stay here.”

“I don’t have to, no.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he tried to reason with Malfoy’s sense of duty to stay.

“You wouldn’t know it.” He looked around the room. He was right. It lacked any sign of Christmas.

Sure, there was a Christmas tree and gifts out in the foyer, but that didn’t count...

Draco murmured something under his breath and flicked his wand a few times after pulling it out from where he’d tucked it in the side of his shoe. And Harry watched as evergreen garlands began to appear around the room. The smell filled the room at once--maybe cedar? Something heavenly, something Harry inhaled and his body deemed mandatory because the breath went in deeper, further than any breath that evening. He even sat up straighter to take it in, turning to look at the garland and wreath that finished forming on the mantle.

The smell seemed to stir Kreacher, too, whose eyes came open to see the room. The smallest appearance of a grin came over his face--not just his lips, but his cheeks. His whole countenance lit up, the most incredible sight that struck Harry in the chest.

“If my mother comes looking for her missing decorations, tell her I had good reason.”

He smiled right at Draco, turning his head and finding that Draco had already been watching him and didn’t tear his eyes away. The fire kept roaring, heating the right side of Harry’s face instead of the back of his neck which was used to the burny feeling by now. The glow of the fire bathed the side of Draco’s pale, flawless face with a tint of orange and red. 

Wow, he was beautiful.

Neither said anything, not wanting to disturb a happy--a miracle!--Kreacher.

Harry remembered their conversation, sobering himself, and diverted his attention.

Draco followed his eyes, maybe his silent train of thought too, “I’d like to monitor him awhile, but if you’d like me to leave, tell me so without guilt. I’ll leave.”

Harry turned his head to return the attention. He met it earnestly, and he shook his head no. No, he didn’t want him to leave.

Instead, he reset, “I’m gonna put on a kettle, though. Could you go for a cuppa?” What was he saying? He already knew Malfoy would never turn one down. They’d lived on tea and biscuits in the library when working on the Quidditch shed restorations just the year before. He could see that answer right in the light eyes, too, and then they scrunched when he could see Harry’s expression.

Harry finally moved, pushing himself up and away, eyes on Kreacher as he departed the room.

Ginny came into the kitchen while the kettle was on, wrapping a hug around him from behind as he stood at the stove. He held her hands in front of him a moment, eyes on the ring on the hand. She asked if he wanted her to come sit in with him, and he shook his head and said, “Thanks, but I just… want to be alone.”

“Isn’t Draco here?”

Harry squinted out the window, because she had a point, but then explained something that made little sense aloud but perfect sense in his head, “That’s… different.”

“How?”

“I, uh… I don’t know. It just is.” He bit his lip, too tired to ask himself to dive further into the thought. He excused it all. “He’s here for Kreacher, to keep an eye on him. We don’t talk at all.”

“If you need me,” she said, gently, once he’d turned around, “I’m just upstairs.”

“Thanks. Happy Christmas Eve,” and instead of kissing her, he instead wrapped his arms around her smaller shoulders and hugged her. He wasn’t feeling much in the mood for love at the moment. A hug felt good, though. She didn’t give the best hugs in return, but none of the Weasleys really seemed to. Hermione and Neville, on the other hand, both gave a nice hug. He wondered how his own hugs were, but maybe he was clutching too hard because she gave him a small push back, as if it was too much and she was being smothered. He loosened his grip and pulled away, sheepish.

Harry took out the tea kettle, a couple of cups, and a small tin of biscuits.

He put the small tray down in front of their feet in front of the hearth and fixed the tea, Malfoy’s with milk and Harry’s without.

Malfoy didn’t move the whole time, but he rarely did. He was so still sometimes, like a statue.

Harry looked up and over towards Kreacher as he pulled his spine straight and handed Malfoy his tea. He took it without a word, and they sat there while the fire loudly popped and cracked behind them. Malfoy must have adjusted it when he’d been in the kitchen. Some new logs of wood had been put in. It brightened the room again, whereas it had been awfully dark before. The fireplace roaring again became too much for Harry, so he moved the tea tray and sat down on the ground with his back to the cooler brick surface of the front of the hearth. His right upper arm was flush against Malfoy’s thigh once he settled, so he scooted over, as if to apologize, and drank his tea.

Draco got up and walked over to Kreacher, took his vitals again, and helped him take a few sips of water. He adjusted him on the couch, settling him back a bit, and Accioed a cool cloth from the kitchen. He left the room and returned with Middy and Archie. Seeing them, Harry understood, and he stood while Draco lifted their tea tray.

Harry followed him out of the room, peeking back in to see Middy and Archie sitting in front of the couch. Kreacher was awake, lucid, and it was a good time for Middy and Archie to visit with him in private. He pulled himself away and found Malfoy standing in the middle of the foyer, with the tray, again looking at the Christmas tree. He turned to Harry, then, with an actual expression of frustration.

Harry explained, “I, um… I was going to start a tradition with Ginny to decorate Christmas Eve.”

Draco gave a nod of understanding, then. Yeah, obviously the current Christmas Eve was occupied. He corrected his expression and followed Harry down to the kitchen. Instead of sitting at the table, they wound up at the kitchen island, on the same side, leaning backs against it while they watched the wind gusts outside blow around leafless tree branches.

“Thanks for being here.”

“I am here, Potter,” he repeated in a different way. “I will keep watch over Kreacher. You could still decorate your tree a little. She’s here, isn’t she?

“It wouldn’t be right,” Harry murmured. 

“The tree is pitiful.”

“I know,” Harry hesitantly laughed.

“Cut down just to sit undecorated for _Christmas_? Where’s the bittersweet justice?”

“I don’t have it in me to feel guilt for the tree right now.” He sighed. “Want a tour?”

To kill time, Harry walked him around the house, to each and every room, including stopping in to visit Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who were playing cards on the floor of the room Ron was regularly crashing in. Well, it was basically his room. They were in a festive mood. The room had been decorated, maybe the same way Malfoy had done, they had a bottle of whiskey and some glasses and ice here and there. They tried to sober themselves, but Harry just finally smiled and told them it was fine. They didn’t have the connection to Kreacher that he did, so… it was to be expected.

Once they left and started down the steps, Middy was standing at the bottom.

As they reached the bottom, seeing her expression, Harry felt a stabilizing touch on his lower back--the tiniest, softest touch, which was Malfoy guiding him to follow Middy. Harry walked into the drawing room, but Draco stayed at the door with Middy. Archie passed Harry, who gave him a light handshake in passing, because before Harry knew it, he was seated on his knees in front of Kreacher, who whispered that he was ready to go. And when Harry held both of his hands, Kreacher’s thumbs wrapped around his.

It was just like that, so quickly, that he decided he was ready. Soon, he was... gone.

Harry rested his head down on the couch once he realized, and let the tears fall. 

Kreacher had been a loyal and stable presence in his life over the last three years.

Everything had happened so fast. Just like that, he was gone. Harry had barely been able to say goodbye, had only been able to speak a few words. He thought of the long life Kreacher had led, full of way more exciting people, and a whole family, long before Harry, and felt sad that he hadn’t been able to offer him more of his last years.

Perhaps that hadn’t mattered as much as just being there with him, tightly holding his hands. He sat there for a long time, staring at Kreacher, until his hands in Harry’s began to harden. He had trouble letting go, though, and didn’t want to. He did at some point, so carefully, with Middy’s help. He thanked her, even embraced her for a long few moments, cupping the back of her head while she sniffled into her handkerchief. She had known him for a long time, it seemed.

The others came down, too, and Harry received their hugs and condolences.

Malfoy stood off near the doorway like, indeed, a statue. He almost blended into the room.

Harry motioned everyone out, so Middy and Archie could say goodbye again.

In the hallway, Harry was naturally pulled towards Draco, taking comfort in his stoic control of the situation. He could see Harry struggling and told him, “When you’re ready, I’ll have him transported to St. Mungo’s.” Part of the official paperwork and process, to “do this right.” And Harry wouldn’t lie in that Draco’s understanding of how this worked was a great relief. He couldn’t dig another grave and bury another house elf himself. It hadn’t been uncommon to dream of having had to put dirt back over Dobby as he’d been saying goodbye.

Ron sat on the steps in the foyer with Harry and Malfoy, waiting, while Ginny and Hermione went back upstairs for a bit. Harry was overwhelmed and barely speaking to anyone, anyway, and when he got like that, there was no point for them to be there.

Middy and Archie finally left, and Harry went back to say goodbye one last time.

When he said the word, Malfoy murmured an incantation, and Kreacher disappeared.

It was just the two of them in the room now, and Draco turned towards him. It said something about his maturity level, about his confidence in himself, the situation, and Harry. He came closer, his left hand coming from his side and motioning once as he closed the space, as if to tell Harry to come on, that it was all right. He was the one who closed the space, though, with his hand lightly patting on Harry’s side, between it and his inner elbow, for him to relax and let go.

Harry didn’t know how, but they were in a full embrace a few seconds later. He had situated himself there, even gotten a better grip, adjusting his body and his right arm around Malfoy’s neck and over to his right shoulder. His own left hand just stayed against the soft material of Malfoy’s sweater, his hand in a fist against it. His jaw was cool against the warmth of Malfoy’s. The whole of his body felt cold against the warmth of Malfoy’s.

It was a strange sensation, though welcome, at the way they fit together.

It was an unusual hold for Harry, to feel arms around him this way, under his own arms and around his upper back, and fully. You know, with, uh… intention, maybe… thoughtfulness?

It was really nice.

He stood into it, gave it a few more moments before his left hand loosened. It slid up to meet his own hand there around Malfoy’s shoulder. He held his own hand, first, to check if it was okay, before he solidly and decisively let his left arm squeezed around Malfoy, too, and just on for a good amount of time.

Yeah, Draco had a wonderful embrace. It wasn’t in the same category as a hug, not that Harry had experienced anyway. A natural break appeared, and they both loosened and put some space between them. As Harry’s right hand came away from the shoulder, it took its time letting go to squeeze the back of his neck. He caught a glimpse of Draco’s face, hoping he didn’t find that weird or uncomfortable.

No, he didn’t.

His arms were separating from having been around Harry, and before letting go he briefly squeezed Harry’s sides, almost to return the squeeze of his own neck and tell him it was fine. They were fine. Everything was fine! Fine, fine.

It was all right there. Nothing was buried underneath the surface, all too suddenly.

Harry’s eyes sunk from his eyes to his lips. He just looked at them, at the perfect, puffy, dusty pink line.

Draco let him look, though Harry did see his eyebrows lift a minute amount.

Harry’s eyes darted back up, though.

Probably not the best idea if he had wanted to break the tension. 

His hands, too, at that moment, sloped down the forearms to the wrists and hands on his sides.

Harry’s hands slid right back up his arms, his shoulders, and around his neck, and Draco’s arms soaked him right back up, right to where he’d been, but he squeezed Harry closer this time. Harry stretched his back, squeezing tightly around the shoulders and nearly choking at how good it felt to stretch out in the arms, to feel his back stretching for more with someone as tall as he was--okay, slightly taller. He felt the hands grasping his shoulder blades, too, feeling out the stretch.

It had been a really fucking good embrace, and he’d wanted more--more comfort, more closeness. And sure, it wasn’t exactly a _friendly_ hug, as he had never hugged anyone quite this way. That was what made it so perfect, though, and so fitting for the moment.

The silent compassion Draco kept so perfectly mum about came out in his embrace.

His right forearm, and his hand, moved up and down Harry’s back slowly, then, to comfort him.

Draco smelled like cedar, too.

Harry took in a deep breath, not embarrassed, and gave one last squeeze of appreciation around Draco’s shoulders as he began to loosen his own grip and let go. This time they both let go, though slowly. There weren’t lingering hands this time.

“I’m sorry for you.”

Harry felt cold, standing there with his hands at his sides strangely. He felt bizarre, but managed, as he watched Draco lean down to lift his medical bag. He pulled it over his shoulder, along with the now empty pouch, having used the tonics in Kreacher’s water, and the enchantment and charms, including the one that sent Kreacher to the morgue at St. Mungo’s, which Harry would surely be dealing with the following day.

He clutched his stomach out of nerves with his right hand.

Malfoy reached out, his entire palm coming over Harry’s own upon his belly, molding around it, and he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek, this ridiculously intimate, sweet gesture, stunning and grounding Harry to the moment. His body felt like it had burst, his nerve endings shooting off a hot flush from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Had he not been so overcome, he might have made a sound.

“I’ll see you,” Draco offered as he backed away, pulling his hand away as though it were foreign to him. As he backed away, it was like Harry felt the physical pull away, a gravitational field separating from his.

Harry’s lips came open in return, sort of numb, and he managed a small nod instead of words.

Draco turned towards the fireplace, pinched Floo from the box on the mantle, and was gone.

Harry immediately looked around the room for some semblance of reason and logic, lifting his hands into the air, bending his elbows, and clutching his head and hair. He breathed out, openly, through his lips and said, aloud, “ _Ohhhhh_ no.” He couldn’t even concentrate on what had just transpired, truly, because he was reminded of Kreacher again, as he took in the room and the blankets on the couch.

He sat down on the hearth, overwhelmed in general, and let out a few tears of frustration.

Sadness.

This was not the Christmas Eve of new and new traditions that he had imagined.


	9. Great

It was a particularly cold February evening when Harry darted down from the Auror office at the Ministry. He’d been on a long shift and was one hundred percent sick. His nose was so stuffed up that he had given up on trying to breath through it. No, he was now a mouth breather. He pushed through the stuffy nose, and everyone in the auror office, between glowers at him, had become used to the scent of the strongest cough drops one could find in Diagon Alley. Should he have gone home to rest? Rest wasn’t for aurors in training, and, despite being visibly sick, his superiors barely blinked about it.

Besides, he was on his first case and was eating, breathing, and living it.

The Ministry was mostly dead, as it was well after five PM, but there were still a few wizards around. He was looking forward, for once in the past three months, to heading back home and getting some sleep. As he walked towards the fireplaces to Floo back home, he caught sight of the back of a knee-length tweed coat, high structured popped collars, and black pants and boots. No dress robe!

According to The Daily Prophet, there was a movement to make it commonplace for wizards to wear muggle business attire. The private sector was more open about it, as they were about _everything_ , Harry had come to learn. And while he had seen some witches begin to shirk heavy cloaks within the halls of the Ministry, he’d yet to have seen anyone fully embrace it. But there, walking out of the closing cafe, was a vision. He looked completely out of place, but maybe it was the others around him who appeared to be in a time warp. His attire immediately made everyone else around him… ancient and dreary.

They were going in the same direction, so Harry put a good effort into taking a few long extra strides to catch up, observing the cadence of the walk he was now well used to picking out of a crowd. His approaching steps alerted the man, whose upper body turned in that way it did, to glance. In his right hand, up by his face, an apple. He was chewing.

The apple was lost within the huge hand, almost comically.

“Potter!” He stopped, for merely a moment, to let Harry fall into step with him. His expression was warm, and bright, and exactly what Harry hadn’t known he’d been missing. It was good to see his face light up. It was good to see him at all, as Harry had, well, been somewhat busy. And also avoidant. Maybe.

“Didn’t expect to see you here at seven on a Friday night. No, thanks,” he declined the extra apple Malfoy had produced from his pocket. He must have gotten them from the cafe.

“ _Merlin_.”

Harry slowed his step, turning to his left to peer at his suddenly stopped, former childhood nemesis and adult acquaintance--also, secret soother, house elf whisperer, and inspiration to continue through every damn hard day of auror training, because if Malfoy could power on through his reputation and make something of his life in the face of everyone wanting him to fail, Harry had no excuse but to make it through.

“You sound and look awful. You shouldn’t be at work.”

Harry, having heard this often over the day in particular, turned back in the direction of the fireplaces and began to walk once again, dismissing the comment for what it was. He heard Draco follow, as expected, “Why do I see you when something is slightly amiss? Do you have a radar? I wonder. Next thing I know, you’ll offer me a full regiment of potions and tinc--tinc--tinct--” he held his left hand back and pulled his bent right arm and elbow up to his face, and sneezed three times, hard. So hard, indeed, that he felt dizzy. He groaned, in a fog, looking into his cloak’s snot-covered arm. He was so out of it he didn’t even care. 

“Tinctures?”

“Yeah, those.”

“Unfortunately,” the other young man said, moving towards Harry and taking his elbow to turn him back on his journey to get home, “I’ve nothing on me to offer.” His touch was careful but friendly. No one else could have pulled this off, and Harry didn’t have this relationship with any of his other male friends. He openly noted so in the moment, taking a foggy gander at the contact on his elbow before it fell away in a too-casual way. “Why don’t you stop by an apothecary before they close? You have,” and he turned and looked at the huge clock in the distance on the wall, up by Kingsley’s gigantic and proudly hanging picture, “two hours.”

“I will suffer in my sickness.”

“Why’s that?”

Harry turned, at long last, at his usual fireplace, at the end of a long corridor, and found Malfoy standing there with his hands behind his back. He smiled, despite himself, despite the stuffy nose and not even being able to feel if there was snot dripping out of it because it was so damn numb. He sniffled, just in case, which ended up with him in a full smile. He liked to see the being in front of him, just as he was, those two yards away with an inquisitive, albeit aloof, interest in Harry in return. The light, the playfulness, in his eyes, and on his face, was like nothing Harry knew. Had it always been there this way, he wondered?

They stood in silence a moment, and Harry posed in return, with genuine curiosity, “What, um, what do _you_ think?”

“I’ve not prepared myself to address this level of psychosis and inner turmoil. We’ll say goodnight now.”

Harry laughed, rubbing over his left eyebrow to ease the tight feeling there, sensing an oncoming headache. He kneaded the spot with a knuckle, “Ah, that’s too bad.” He took his glasses off and down to his side while his right hand rubbed his nose and beside his nose on his cheeks. This was the worst it had been yet, like a block sitting on the center of his face. His vision felt worse because of it, and he could barely keep his eyes fully open. He put his glasses back on, pleased when the world, and the man within his sight, snapped back into focus.

“You’re doing all right, though?”

“I’m well,” the reply was as soft as the question had been, the first open acknowledgement ever, maybe, of the way Harry pondered Draco’s well being, tracking all of the way back to those letters they had first exchanged what felt like many years ago.

“I feel nice things to have heard so.”

“I’ve a suggestion for you, I think,” Draco offered, as he began to back away, after doing a mental somersault to process Harry’s reply. “You ought to be more careful with the way you say things.”

Harry slid his hands into his pockets, “Imagine, a man thinking before he speaks.”

“And so there you go again, nearly a _poet_.”

Harry was so amused, hadn’t felt so at ease, and stupidly neutral, in some time, “We’re having a dinner party tomorrow, six PM. Would you come if I asked you?”

“Not sure.” He gave a pregnant pause with a mostly straight face. 

Harry watched--nearly gazed--and then questioned five seconds later, “How about now?”

“I dare say, running into me and extending a last minute looks good for neither of us...”

It wasn’t a clear no, so Harry divulged, “It’s Gin’s dinner party. I’m not entirely sure who’s coming. I know the owner of the Harpies will be there, a Daily Prophet senior editor or two, but other than that, your guess is as good as mine. My preferred guest list consisted of… Hermione and Ron.”

Draco did something with his face, and just for kicks he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, “You _don’t_ want me to come.”

“ _Neither could make it_ , so you’d be my only guest. You’d be doing me a favor, in the end.”

“I do thank you for asking,” Draco genuinely prefaced, “but I’m in such a place that the chit chat might end me.”

“Think of it as an opportunity for you to… uh, explore decrepit old books and... ancient trinkets in the dreariest house in London, then. We could even toast to death,” or Kreacher, “in the drawing room.”

He was squinting at Harry in return, nearly endeared towards a thoughtfulness of what might appeal to him, and he confirmed, “I _would_ rather a libation than a cocktail.”

Only Draco Malfoy would have the word libation in his vocabulary so readily that it rolled off his tongue, and so Harry was beaming, because that spoke to such a piece of him deep down that sometimes it seemed like he could only share it with Malfoy without judgment. There was a lot of that sitting somewhere down inside of him, he knew, “Yeah, me too.”

Draco breathed in slightly and didn’t even sigh, just made some sort of sound from his throat like he was trying to decide what to do. It didn’t seem Harry needed an answer, anyway. He left Draco with the open invitation and backed closer towards his fireplace, looking over Draco from head to toe with his usual thoughtfulness and appreciation.

“I like, uh, whatever’s happening here.” He gave a motion of his hand to the getup. He could hear the amusement and lightness in his own voice, and it reflected on Malfoy’s face.

“Yes,” Draco addressed himself, giving a glance down. With his hands in his coat pockets, he pushed them out to the sides. “I’m trying something new.”

Harry laughed, just because it was easy. There wasn’t any pretense, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Enjoy your apples, then. If I’m lucky, I’ll see you tomorrow. If not, I look forward to our next random run-in.”

Draco’s hands came back down to his sides, so the coat fell flat once more, “I don’t want to see you in the Emergency triage of St. Mungo’s because you overextended yourself. There is a nasty magic cold going around, and you don’t want it. Go home and _rest_.”

“You’re… serious. That’s a thing?”

“It’s a wonder you’re still out of the loop on innately wizard knowledge sometimes, Potter.” He gave an apologetic squint of his eyes when he finished speaking, as if to realize it hadn’t been the most helpful comment. “It’s a thing. Go home.” He searched Harry’s face, and Harry, instead of going to pipe back a humorous retort, saw a real concern in the expression. He digressed and simply gave a nod as he turned towards the fireplace with only a light wave of goodbye.

Harry took the warning to heart, as he damn well knew he’d been overextending himself. He arrived back in the drawing room, made himself a cup of tea, and then headed upstairs to his bedroom. He stopped in to see Ron. He was eating takeout, leaning over the side of his bed with his attention on a case file in a folder. There were papers strewn about.

It was a really good sight to see, Harry thought, and gave a light tap of his knuckle on the doorframe, “All right, mate?”

Ron looked up and over, “I think I’m losing the plot on this case.”

Harry only listened.

“I’m reading into details.”

“You’re going to be up for forty-eight hours…”

“Yeah,” Ron sighed, as he pulled his spine straight and grabbed his container of food. “I lost track of time. I’ll finish this, then get some sleep.”

“Yeah--if you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks, mate. DId you stop in and get some medicine?”

“No, I have no energy to go anywhere, but I’m going up to bed now. Ran into Malfoy at the Ministry; he said there’s a magic cold going around. Is that real?”

“Oh yeah, it will sit on top of your actual cold and last for weeks. It’s nasty, had it once back in third year, remember?” He did remember Ron being pretty ill, just hadn’t realized there was a difference between a normal cold and a magic cold. Something new to learn every day! “Ready for tomorrow?”

“No, and… without Kreacher, it all feels impossible. There’s a good chance Ginny and I will argue seventy percent of the day.”

“Sorry I can’t make it or help you out.”

“Ha, I actually, uh... invited Malfoy? In the moment, I thought that might help my sanity.”

“Not sure those two things go together,” Ron cracked, but carefully. He fixed Harry with a stare.

“What?”

“You really like him as a person?”

“Yeah,” Harry easily agreed. He hadn’t tried to force that on any of his friends. His relationship with Malfoy was outside of the bounds of the rest of his life and friendships. It was its own special bubble out in the universe. “You’re okay with that, right?”

Ron shrugged, “Sure,” and Harry could see he meant it, that there was nothing hiding under it. “It’s becoming the stuff of legend, something I’ve actually heard people discuss in passing. If you two can put aside old bygones, what excuse do the rest of us have? What excuse would _I_ have?”

“If only I were that brave…”

“Even so, mate. Your actions speak loudly.”

“You don’t have to like him.”

“I don’t... _not_ like him,” Ron managed. “I can see he has changed enough to not _hate_ him, at least.”

“All right, uh… just… don’t want to make you feel like I expect you to like him.”

“You haven’t.” Ron’s eyebrows lifted, and in that moment Harry saw Ginny. It made him chuckle mentally. “Does Ginny know you invited him?”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s a no,” Ron laughed, face totally bright as he paused mid-chew. “Good luck.”

“Honestly, uh, not sure why she’d care. What do you know that she doesn’t tell me?”

“She thinks he makes you soft.”

“ _Soft_?!”

“You revert back into Nuanced Harry, and Nuanced Harry _drives her bonkers_.”

“No shit,” Harry breathed, enlightened and surprised. Was this true? How had he not noticed? And it was true, Nuanced Harry had become so plain and intertwined in his life these days that there had been a sizable merge. He made it common practice to try to think before he spoke, to try to see others’ points of view, now, just as part of normal life. “Uh, well, okay. That’s good to know… er, thanks.”

“Rest assured, if Ginny finds out I relayed this information, I may need to disappear for awhile...”

“You know where my cloak is,” Harry smiled. He took a sip of his warm tea. “Ah, yes. Perfect. ‘night, Ron. If I don’t see you before you head out, good luck.” It was his first official assignment which he’d be working overnight. He walked in the couple of steps and grabbed Ron’s hand and they sleepily shook hands in a silly way to share affection. “Stay safe out there.”

“Stay safe _here_.”

Harry’s face hurt as he walked down the hallway, amused at the wry crack at his expense.

It felt good to strip himself of the day and finally crawl into bed to give way to his cold.

Ginny was over at nine in the morning, as they’d discussed. She was worried about him since he was not downstairs to meet her, finding him sound asleep in his silent bedroom. The curtains were wide open, having never been drawn the night before, so the room was bright. Still, he slept right through it. When she gently shook him, he was groggy. She went downstairs to get started with her agenda for the dinner party, doing prep, while he rolled to the side of the bed and sat there, shirtless, in black briefs and black socks, wondering when his pants had come off during the night.

It was some time that he just sat there, his brain feeling heavy, and his body, too.

There was a knock at the door, so he turned and looked over.

It took him a few moments to recognize the figure leaning against the door frame, entirely too tall to be Ginny--or anyone else. He blinked and wavered, mouth coming open. But his acknowledgment of Malfoy, who hadn’t wanted to startle him, spoke for the situation instead. He came into the room in that quiet way he did, despite his tall frame, with his black medical bag over his shoulder.

“Sorry--uh, sorry. Did Ginny call for you?”

“No,” he admitted, and it took Harry a moment before realizing Malfoy had willingly come to check on him. He pleasantly smiled in return, realizing. “She was happy to see me, sent me straight up.”

A miracle, Harry mentally commented, as Draco came around the bed, keeping a distance. He stood there in front of the huge windows, assessing Harry who still sat there half naked, pale, slouched, and with his hair a nightmare of epic proportions, “What do you think, am I fixable?”

Draco put his bag down on the bed but already had his wand lifted. He checked Harry’s vitals, and Harry saw the reflection of his body temperature in the glass reflection of the window. A fever! No, come on. He didn’t have time for this. He looked up to the right, almost accusingly, but the other man was too busy looking through his bag, so Harry watched with interest before he leaned slightly to the right and peered down at the rifling hands. What kind of goods did healers in training carry around?

Out of nowhere came two fingers strongly under his neck, to check his pulse.

Harry tilted his head up, obediently, and the fingers readjusted.

The pale eyes were on him, now, instead of the bag, and after a good ten seconds of feeling and counting Harry’s pulse, he concluded, “No, I’m afraid it’s terminal."

“Jerk.”

Draco cracked a smile, “You’re sick, Potter. Fever, racing pulse. I can give you a standard potion to brew, to keep your internal temperature down, but it’s merely a cover to ease symptoms. The fever would still be there. You need real rest in order to drive it out.”

“I’d argue but my body barely wants to take direction from my brain. A win for you.”

“Sounds about right. Do you want me to see if Ginny can brew you the potion?”

“No, she’s got her day scheduled out. I can brew it.”

“You and potions are a tricky match when you’re _not_ nearly delirious, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Harry looked back down into the bag and rifled around in it the way Draco did.

He looked back up at the big blue eyes with a close-mouthed smile.

It was silly, attention-seeking behavior. He just wanted to stir up some trouble.

Malfoy was anything but irritated, and then managed their usual assessment, “ _Okay_.”

Harry couldn’t help his laugh now, “Don’t know how you can keep professional when I am nearly naked.”

“Are you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, _okay_.”

Draco cracked a smile, “Well, now you’ve made it awkward.”

“Refuse to believe anything could ever be awkward between us ever again, in a, uh, strange development,” Harry decided, withdrawing his hand from the bag as Malfoy jokingly asked him “May I?” in order to get access to his own bag. Fine, fine, and so Harry sat there with interest.

This time, Malfoy’s time in the bag produced a small brown bottle with a seal around it. He handed it over. “This will help you rest until two or three."

“I have to be in tip top shape for the dinner party.”

“Harry,” Draco addressed him now, more seriously, with his eyes complete in Harry’s, “you’re genuinely sick, and if you’ve a fever, you’re _contagious_. You don’t want to pass it on, correct?” And so instead of rifling through Draco’s bag again, to bother him, Harry made a small pathetic cough onto his palm, then put it right out on Draco’s sleeve and slid his palm all the way down. And so Draco stood up with the strangest look on his face, a mix of all confusing things that Harry was entertained to see. “ _Really_?”

“We can be sick together.”

Draco bent down to be even with Harry, who was just teasing and basically out of his mind, got his full eye contact, and whispered, “You’re really weird sometimes, Potter.”

“Eh,” Harry chirped back with a shrug and whispered in return, comically, “only you know so. Wear it as a badge of honor. Pin it _right…_ here.” He tapped a fingertip on the center of the smooth forehead, with purpose, and when his fingertip snapped away, he bent it up and down a couple of times, as if it were saying hello.

As expected, the look on Malfoy’s face was gold.

“ _Out of your mind_ ,” Draco assured him, as if he did not know, but they both knew Harry was perfectly lucid, if not just slightly out of his usual element. It had been just enough to cross the physical boundary. “I’ll speak to Ginny, if you’d like.” He stood, attention back on his bag, very purposely not on Harry. He zipped his bag to a close.

Harry sobered in every way, “If you see her, sure, but otherwise, no. It’s fine.”

“Can I get you anything before I go?”

“You know, I was just getting up to make some tea.” Harry looked from side to side in the big bed, as if to remember there he’d been going when Draco had made himself known. The truth was, he knew he would be disappointing Ginny, but he hadn’t planned on being sick. A cold was one thing, but a fever another, so Draco was right in that he needed to just get better, in quarantine, where he wouldn’t potentially pass on whatever it was his body was fighting. And it was fighting it, because he was really bloody exhausted even just from sitting up.

Shirtless, pantless, he still felt hot inside. The back of his neck was clammy. He pawed at it.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

“That’d actually be really nice,” Harry softly enthused, turning his attention back to Draco. “Thank you.”

Draco stood a yard from the bed, now, with his bag, having been watching Harry dazedly wonder, “How about a bit of toast? Are you hungry at all?”

“Can’t eat,” Harry assured, because he hadn’t any semblance of an appetite at the moment. “Will you have a cup with me?”

“ _A_ cup,” Draco agreed, giving in. Harry wanted his company awhile more and was open enough to ask so, so Draco would return in kind.

Harry’s arm came out, in this ghostly, possessed way, and he held it there for a minute before his thumb popped up from his fist, giving his first thumbs up of the day. He smiled along with it, watching the absolute joy wash the handsome face. He had become used to getting amusement, it was clear, out of Draco’s expressions. He tried to hide his laughter at Harry, too, but it didn’t work. He pulled his bag off of his shoulder, having his marching orders, set it on a velvet chair by the window, and then headed for the bedroom door.

Satisfied, and glad he didn’t have to put on a brave face and saunter through the day like his usual self, he turned and looked at his pillows. He slid back to them, pulling the quilt back over him on the way. He rested on his side, too tired and fatigued to try to sit up yet, and dozed until there was noise in the room. He pulled himself up with all of his effort, intrigued by the tray that floated alongside Malfoy. He spelled it down on the bed once Harry was sitting and elevated in the pillows.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, where Harry had been not long ago.

“Toast,” Harry observed fondly, as he lifted the tea to his lips.

“I’m famished.”

Harry just smiled, feeling so at ease to witness Malfoy having made himself some buttered toast that was now snacking on in his left hand, while he held his tea mug by the rum with his right hand on his knee. It was nice to see him this way, something he had been more used to when they’d been back in eighth year when they had had this level of intimacy at meals or during their private time in the library.

There was no pretense between them, and Harry was reminded of how grateful he was that somehow they’d made this kind of peace, that they had a unique connection. It still felt so different than any other relationship he had, maybe more adult. How nice it was that he had garnered enough of Draco’s good will for him to show up this morning to check on him and have it be in such a casual way.

“Did you have plans for the day?”

“I have some house calls to make,” he admitted. “I’m on call today, check in with our regulars.”

“Is that still mostly the elderly?” Harry remembered, and asked with genuine interest because Malfoy’s area of expertise, and his job, was so vastly different than anything Harry could do.

“Yes, the ones who could be coughing up blood and decide it was no cause for concern, that, _well, young man, it’s nothing a little prune juice won’t help_. The amount of times I hear about prune juice, you would think there really is something magical about it...” He gave an involuntary shudder.

Harry considered the reaction, face scrunched, “Never had it.”

“My grandparents had it around. Must be something from that generation.”

“Like ours and pumpkin juice?”

“I’ve never been that fond of pumpkin juice,” Draco almost whispered, long extended index fingertip drawing over his closed lips so Harry knew it was a secret.

“How,” Harry demanded, but with his stuffed up sinuses it sounded more like _ow_. “It’s the most delicious juice ever created. It even says so on the bottle. _You’re the weird one_.”

“A debate worth having at another time.”

Harry lay there with a small grin, elevated in the pillows with closed eyes, and began to float away.

It was a handful of minutes later that the cup was being plucked out of his loose grip.

Draco stood up off the bed and placed Harry’s mug on the tray, saying quietly as he spelled the lights off. It hardly did anything, because of the huge bright windows, but it definitely set Harry up for an afternoon of sleeping, “I’m going to head out to do my rounds, but I’ll stop back in around three, if you’d like.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry decided.

“I don’t _have_ to, you’re right.”

Harry smiled but said nothing, just gave a nod of his head, nearly with his nose, as a goodbye.

Draco grabbed his bag and was gone.

The dinner party went on as planned, and Harry slept right through it.

“Are you sure he’s fine?” He heard Ginny ask once nervously from the doorway. “He’s never been sick like this.”

“Once,” returned the voice. “Sleep is the best thing for him.”

And sure enough, the fever did finally break, settling at low-grade with the help of a black goo left on his bedside table, alongside a note that read “if you dare.” He had dared! And by evening, he was up and about, but carefully. He was able to fetch his own tea. In the kitchen, since it was Sunday evening and he was alone, and the house was empty, he walked to the drawing room, wrapped himself in a blanket, started a fire, and stared into it.

He was... lonely, some deep part of him, even with people around.

He moped into work the next day, and was promptly set home because he was still “a walking, talking infection, Potter, Jesus!” It was raining, which provided a nice soundtrack for how he felt in every way as he settled on into the drawing room at home. He lay there on his back, staring at the tall ceilings, while the fire crackled. He was listening to the grandfather clock tick… tock… tick… tock… tick…

The front door opened, so he sat up on his elbows and looked over and out into the foyer.

It was Ron, who had witnessed Harry being told off to go home earlier in the day, “Hey, mate.”

“Hey,” Ron offered

Behind Ron appeared Draco, peeking in around the doorframe.

They were both in coats, must have run into each other somewhere. Why hadn’t they Floo’d?

“The Floo is closed,” Ron told him, coming over to look into the fireplace. “I tried to come home at lunch but it was blocked. Still blocked at the end of the day. Did you spell it closed?”

“No,” Harry tiredly managed, watching them both inspect it.

Ron tossed some powder into the Fireplace and it burst bright green. He went to the burrow, and five seconds later he was back, “Worked fine for me.”

Harry fell back onto his back, maybe grumpy and devoid of good nature, and drew, “This house is so enchanted I wouldn’t even say it’s far-fetched to keep anyone out while I’m sick or in a terrible, awful, foul, hideous, disastrous, _no good_ mood.”

“That’s a warning, for sure,” Ron managed lightly to Draco, who stood back with his hands in his coat pockets, observing Harry’s sprawled frame on the couch. And like that, Ron left without another word to settle in for the evening. He left Draco there to figure out what to do for himself. Either way, Harry’s comment had been innocent enough.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Ran into Weasley when he was having trouble connecting to the Floo.”

Harry pulled himself up and sat properly, running a hand back through his hair in a rough way, “I wanted to thank you for brewing the potion. It helped a lot.” He just got a nod in return, a lone nod… light eyes right on Harry. Harry was strangely avoidant. “Are you hungry?”

“If I say yes, are you going to ask me to stay for dinner?”

“Takeout might be nice.” He contemplated the moment. “Least I can do for your efforts, a start.”

“I’m hardly going to turn down a free meal, Potter.”

Harry was genuinely happy that there wasn’t push back.

Malfoy unbuttoned his coat, smoothing it over the back of a chair, and sat down on the hearth.

“You’ve been here for me the past couple of months, and… unexpectedly. I know we said we never owed each other anything, um, but if that’s what _has_ kept you coming back, I,” his voice was so quiet, and Draco seemed caught off guard, “appreciate it.”

Draco leaned over his knees and smiled, watching Harry struggle to find uncomfortable words to voice aloud, “We’re… _friends_.”

“ _So you admit it_ ,” Harry joked from the corner of his mouth, then felt relieved by the words expressed and agreed with a nod. They were friends, and it was nice enough that they could agree on such a thing. A fact, even! “I’ll make it all up to you, maybe not with home brewed potions. I can make a decent brownie, though.”

“Let’s just start with dinner.”

Later, maybe at around nine, they both sat on the couch, a few libations in, and Draco asked, “Do you really want to get married so young?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know.” Harry circled his glass once, not entirely sure of his answer. “Why not?”

“Don’t you want to meet more people? See more of the world? Do you already know she’s the one?” He interrupted himself. “ _Is_ that even a real thing, “the one?” What does that feel like?” He’d asked a bunch of questions, leaving no time for answers, and when he didn’t get one, his cheek fell to the left, against the couch, and he saw Harry looking at him in return. “What does love feel like?”

Harry was so overcome at the moment that his tight-lipped line turned into a smile, and he faced the ceiling again. He grabbed his face with his left hand, squeezing his cheeks, and let the laughter out. It was innocent enough, “I don’t know! This?”

“I like you fair enough, Potter, but hang on now.”

They both laughed.

“No, I meant… I don’t know. It’s right with her, I guess.”

“A _horrible_ answer,” Draco confirmed over Harry’s mortified answer. “ _I guess_.”

“I’m--I’m sure it’s all deep-seated in me, some desperation for stability.” His eyes searched from ceiling corner to ceiling corner, then down to the fireplace. He saw a picture of himself and Ginny on the fireplace, one she had given him for Christmas. It was a cozy photo, reminded him of his parents. Almost too much, down to their coats and hair. His eyes drifted to the right, and he looked over the profile, felt a blatant acknowledgment of the alcohol and its impact on his inhibitions, and then fixed the ceiling with a furrowed eyebrow. He WAS attracted to Draco in very layered, soft ways that maybe he wasn’t with anyone else. Even this very conversation was a reason why.

“My mother is trying to set me up with Astoria Greengrass.”

“Daphne’s sister.”

“Yes.”

“Daphne’s nice.”

“She’s into her career.”

“You are too, though.”

“I have… _no idea_ what I’m into,” came the loaded reply.

Harry smiled at the ceiling and softly laughed.

Draco laughed, too.

They glanced at each other, and then Harry groaned and looked back up the ceiling with widened eyes, enough that Draco, who was still looking at him, let his laugh soften until it was just under his breath and coming out his nose, and after a second, jibed, “Something to say?”

“Yeah,” Harry managed, then, and pulled his head up off the couch, “I should put on some coffee.”

“You’re, sometimes--you’re strangely precious, Potter. I treasure you.”

Harry had on a huge smile, living it up and soaking up the words, facing Draco and his head still back on the couch and his eyes still up on the ceiling, “It’s, um… mutual.”

“ _Great_.” He put his left hand out, his empty glass. 

Harry glanced at it, at Malfoy’s expression, then poured about a teaspoon of whiskey into the glass. He watched with light eyes, completely and thoroughly slap-happy, as Malfoy sat up and slowly sipped on the whiskey. It didn’t even pass his lips, Harry could see. He was just breathing into his glass. Shit, they were slightly fucked! He laughed about it, the absurdity of it and of Malfoy. He reached over with his hand and tilted the glass up with a finger, so Malfoy’s lips came open and the liquid emptied from the glass.

“My mouth is numb.”

“There’s a cure for that.”

Draco’s eyes shot to him from the fireplace, glistening and scrunched, like he could not believe the retort, not sure if he wanted to even DARE take some innuendo out of that. And when all he got in return was a happy eyebrow lift from an amused Harry, he gave an impressed nod and considered the fireplace again, saying under his breath to them both, “All right… all right.”

“Yeah, _great_ ,” Harry imitated him perfectly.

Draco did a double-take at him, “Stop.”

Harry, leaned up over his knees, gave a roundabout nod, “All right, fine. We can move on.”

“I’m only teasing.” Draco sat up, then, a bit suddenly, and they sat in silence a moment. “Potter?”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, then closed his lips, fixing Draco with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Potter,” he said again this time, and leaned up over his knees, too, carefully, watching Harry, “ _did_ you have something to say?”

Harry was too inebriated, and he trusted their relationship too much, to be panicked or look away, and all he did was offer the tiniest of shrugs. His shoulders stayed up, he held the eye contact for a long few moments, and then released his shoulders. He didn’t want to be honest. But he didn’t want to say no, either. He was stuck in the moment, not sure how to proceed or why he even wanted to NOT immediately change the subject, or get up, or tell him, no, he had nothing to say. It was just… he felt closer to Malfoy in a way he couldn’t describe than he had felt to anyone… ever?

“You’re a… person,” Harry managed.

“I’m... a… _person_?” Malfoy questioned, and Harry smiled at the pure contempt.

“I meant,” Harry replied, getting a hold of himself, using the moment to reset, and he laughed a little, diverting his eyes. Whew, maybe a spell dodged there, “you’re a nice person, and I am fond of you.”

“Okay,” returned softly, “well, that’s… _nice_ of you. I feel the same.”

Harry swallowed whiskey along with his next words, focusing on his glass to ease his sudden nerves. He grimaced against the taste once he’d swallowed, “And you speak nice, and you look a bit nice sometimes, too.”

“A _bit_ ,” Draco repeated, trying to decipher the words like he would a puzzle, down to the squinted eyes. He was trying to follow Harry’s line of thinking, closer than he had been before, so when Harry looked to the right, braving it so suddenly, Malfoy was a HELL of a lot closer than he had been before. Instead of immediately backing away, though, there was no movement. There was laughter--oh yes, surprised laughter, that he hadn’t bothered to jump away.

Harry’s eyes slipped right down, feeling his warm mouth buzz from the whiskey as he eyed Malfoy’s.

“Are you kidding me right now,” Draco whispered, at the blatant stare. “Do you want me to do it? Because I’ll do it. But if it’s going to fuck you up, I don’t want to do it. But I do want to do it, for... the record."

Harry smiled so hard, unable to help it, “Do it, then.”

“I mean… _you_ do it.”

“ _I mean_ ,” Harry murmured his imitation again perfectly, as he put his glass down between his feet with his right hand. It quietly dropped to the floor, but in just that time, Harry surged in the very small distance between their faces, with a head tilted slightly to the right, and just went for it--not--not out of anything insane, or feverish, or passionate, but a… curiosity, because he knew, well, he knew it felt nice to be this way with Draco--silly, and harmless, and… soft. He could be himself, maybe this included.

It, um… it wasn’t brief.

There was a solid lock, maybe because of how Harry had kissed him, their positioning just right.

It was warm, decisive, and tasted and smelled like whiskey with a hint of… ah, yes, _cedar_.

Their lips separated from the initial lock, the suction breaking, but Harry stayed right where he was with no reason to quickly pull away.

Draco kissed him, this time, instead, and Harry latched right back on, breathing in through his nose. Yep, a _bit_ hot--just, erm… just a bit. It was good, so… so good. But short lived. It ended on its own, and their faces stayed close a moment, both with closed eyes, and before pulling away, Harry felt it natural--and important--to give him one super tender and appreciative peck before they were both pulling away.

It took Harry a moment to open his eyes, just the couple of inches away, to assess the situation.

“Oh,” he managed, right in the bright blue eyes, “uh… hey.”

And then Malfoy just began to laugh--totally--just, it overcame him, and he put his face right in his palm and sighed his usual greeting, “Oh _, hi_ ,” while he rubbed his face as though it now itched.

It was innocent, and silly, and… nice.

Harry’s face was hot. His ears were burning. He put his attention back on the fireplace and gave a nod, not quite sure of what other words he might have said at any other time. He glanced to the right, just to check in to see how the other young man--former nemesis!--was coping. He smiled right at Harry, teeth and all, with a dimple in his cheek, which was tinged pink.

“You just…”

“I did,” Harry confirmed thoughtfully, picking up his glass by the rim while he pondered it. “I really wanted to.” He paused. “And I liked it. Huh,” he huffed at the room, then, looking around, now, as if to remember where they were--that was, not locked away in an invisible chamber where consequence did not exist. He couldn’t feel pressured to be panicked, though. In truth, he had wanted it very much. He felt quite close to the other boy, and found himself already longing for the softness of his mouth and the suction back on his own lips that had made him feel wanted and desired, if not cared for.

 _That_ , however, did concern him.

Harry turned to look at him, lips pressed tightly together, not sure how to proceed now.

“I’ll… go,” came the reply, so abruptly, but it wasn’t awkward or strange. Malfoy was conflicted, too.

Harry considered him, then gave a shake of his head wordlessly, and he lifted his wand from the floor. He spelled the door closed and extinguished the lights, so there was just the dying fire for illumination or clarity.

Truth was, he would probably never find himself in this situation again, what with the life he was setting up for himself, and he knew he’d never be attracted to, or appreciative, or anyone quite the same way he was of Draco. He really cared for him, thought highly of him, admired him, found him silly, and a bit of a gentleman, and a nice person.

And he was beautiful.

There was no argument, and this time he wasn’t the one initiating a kiss.

There were hands roaming, soft sighs into each other’s mouths.

Harry didn’t even know how it happened, had his fingers and hands in the soft hair, arm wrapped around his head as they kissed, clutching it in nearly a protective way. These were like no other kisses he’d ever experienced, on top of it. They were new to him, maybe to Draco too, having slowed to these romantic meshes, tongues softly touching against each other’s lips and tongues--not--not all the time, just… just once in awhile.

Malfoy’s hand slid down his chest, in an intimate way, onto his stomach, and he just held his hand there once again, like the last time they had been in this room and he’d been saying goodbye. And so Harry’s natural reaction to that came as a missed kiss, lips parted as he reveled in the feeling with closed eyes, lost in an abrupt and complex intimacy he felt almost shy to be a part of. His chin lifted, his head tilting back, and his mouth opened to the air.

Oh, his touch felt so, _so_ good.

Harry trusted his touch, and his own fingertips absentmindedly slipped down over the hand, stumbling over it, until his own molded over the other one, holding it right where it was in return. 

Draco’s next kiss was deep, meant to sate Harry, to take advantage of the lull and arousal, to give him more--more affection and a very long, emotional kiss that surfaced out of the blue.

Their lips came apart after some time, and Harry managed, “This feels good.” 

Draco couldn’t even speak, said nothing, which Harry understood, giving the corner of his mouth a soft thumb as his arm came from around his head and neck, wiping away a patch of moisture he could see there. His eyes were fully on Malfoy’s, his lowered eyelashes, since his face was tilted slightly down, watching him closely, carefully, for any sign of regret or distress.

He was in agreement.

It felt _so_ good.

“ _You_ feel good,” Harry clarified, before guiding the face closer to his own, wrapping his arm back around the shoulder and enclosing his hand over the shoulder as he received a nudge on his cheek that sent shivers up and down his spine. He nuzzled back into it, overwhelmed by the impact it had on him--nearly more arousing than a kiss! He even tightly clutched the shoulder to signify it and clutched his hand over Draco’s on his stomach, too.

They had an embrace for a long moment, and when he was pulling away, Draco left him with an intentional kiss or five. Their eyes were together for the first time while he did so, and luckily the intensity was eased by the darkness of the room and the dimmed fireplace.

Draco had control of the moment. Harry went with it, finding them back on the couch while they shared one long, kiss which tapered off into some soft, sweet kisses... which resulted in some abrupt laughter from both of them.

“You’re... sweet,” Draco told him, maybe nearly afraid to. Seemed nothing could have stopped him from saying it, though. It had seemed important for him to have said it. “ _Pretty_ sweet.”

Harry was content to hear it, accepted the thoughtfulness and stored it away in his mind.

Draco laughed, lowering his face now that Harry’s head was back on the arm rest, and began to adjust his body so they were lying together comfortably, and, well, in the quiet of a random Monday night, in the dark of a private, quiet room where no one else could see them, or how either of them existed to the other like they did, they spent some time hooking up. They felt out each other’s bodies, ghosting over arms and itching under each other’s clothes with shy, nervous fingertips until they fell asleep together mid-sleepy kiss with new ownership of each other’s skin and Harry’s thigh and bent knee fully settled between Draco’s.

Harry sat up on his elbows at around… three?

He spelled on the light.

Draco was up, lightly pulling his shirt down over his bare stomach and the patch of hair Harry had only felt, not yet seen. He briefly enjoyed the view until as he turned to Harry, deer in headlights… er, table lights.

Neither had words.

“Uh,” Malfoy finally offered, pulling his sweater back on after threading his hands through the sleeves. He fixed Harry with an open expression once it was over his head. But, if he had expected to find some reason there to panic, he was gravely mistaken. There was only light being returned to him. He even paused before giving the sweater a tug down. A smile had already chiseled out the corner of his mouth, “great. Okay.”

Harry watched him, half asleep, try to figure out what to say with the small, content smile on his own lips. In Harry’s positive, casual reaction, Draco had been free to find his own. And in that, Harry was simply… free. He was happy to return the same salutation they always did when conflicted, though his throat was froggy and uncleared, “ _Okay_.”

“Great.”

Harry hummed his laughter, rubbing one eye with a twisty knuckle. He was barely awake.

“Will feel this in the morning,” Draco said under his breath, and Harry wasn’t sure if he meant the alcohol or the complete and unexpected hookup. Because Harry, too, was not sure, and was not eager for the morning to arrive.

“Eh,” Harry throatily protested, when he went to turn. “Ehhhhh!”

“What!” Draco managed, and Harry could see that he was red. His ears were even back. But he knew _what_ , anyway.

Once he grabbed his coat, he returned back to the couch and leaned down, with total conviction, and left Harry with a long, incredibly romantic kiss, which he softened into when he heard Harry’s small, content moan of approval. He pulled away only when he had to. He was flustered and overwhelmed as he pulled up and away and moved for the fireplace. He didn’t look back at Harry after, whose feet touched down on the floor just in time to hear the fizz of the Floo announce the departure.

He rubbed his forehead with his palm, too tired and still too inebriated to have regrets, but did address the entire situation with an aptly sighed, “ _fuck_.”


	10. Good Vibrations

Harry woke with a start, scaring the complete shit out of himself when the cup on his chest, which he’d fallen asleep with, fell onto his lap and onto the floor. At least it hadn’t been full. He looked around the dim room, squinting against the sun coming in through the dingy windows at street-level. What had woken him was a man stomping his boot outside, sounded like he was cursing something or another.

This was the third time he’d fallen asleep on this dusty old couch in some dingy basement room filled with boxes and files of old Ministry cases, most at least ten years old. The case he was working on required some digging and research, and in a strange turn of events, he’d been the one in his auror class to volunteer for this boring work. It put him to sleep, quite literally, but it also kept him at a distance from everyone else, which… was a welcome thing, as of late.

His wand started to vibrate on the table, meaning he was being summoned by one of two people--Ginny or Hermione. He saw with a glance at a nearby clock that it was dinner time. Right--dinner, with his friends. He hurried to finish reading the rest of the file, at least what he remembered from where he had last left off, and learned absolutely nothing from it, nothing of value or what he was looking for.

He grabbed his coat, turned off the light, checked out with the witch whose job it was to keep track of who came and left, and took the cement steps two at a time. It was a lucky thing that dinner was just at a small restaurant not too far from the building. He hurried there, was shown the table in the trendy, dark restaurant, and turned a corner to a private room where his friends were. He barely had time to be objective, to think to himself, “maybe you ought to take a second to make sure you look presentable.”

He appeared, breathless, with his hair a mess from the wind, and was met with laughter. He moved towards the back of Ginny’s chair, though she had turned to look at him just like everyone else had. He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, sheepish, and genuinely managed under his breath, “I am so sorry for being late. I… fell asleep.” He pulled his coat off and hung it over the back of the empty chair next to Ginny before sliding down and in.

He was a fucking mess, and he knew it. He pushed his long, wavy mess back off of his face and to the left, pushing it ritually off his face. He tried to make it seem like he was good, fine, happy. Just running late, that was all. Fell asleep? Sure, that was totally normal to do at the end of the work day. It was because he was having a hell of a time falling asleep at night lately--and by lately, the last two weeks.

These two weeks had been a trying time, and he was running out of patience with himself.

“You… fell asleep in a ditch?” Ron jibed from down the table, and there was love in it.

“Ron, really?” Hermione asked out of the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were on Harry. She leaned over her menu, across the table, looking at him with those same warm brown eyes that he almost hated to see look at him in such a way--worry. It immediately embarrassed him. “What Ron means to say is that--”

“--you look like you fell in a ditch.”

Hermione’s mouth closed, but then she popped a dark eyebrow, too, and laughed, as if to look Harry over in the new light of Ron’s assessment, “He’s not totally wrong.”

Harry knew it wasn’t that bad. It was just, they weren’t going to be used to him looking this way. He would have had the same reaction if one of them had appeared late, for dinner, with windswept hair, dark circles under their eyes, bottom of pants wet because of a run in with a puddle, and maybe, he realized, a hole in the hem of a wrist cuff. He folded it over so it wasn’t noticeable before unfolding the menu in front of him. He knew he was late and he didn’t want to delay anything further. He glanced at the menu, picked something immediately, and then closed it back up. He leaned into the table, elbows on the top of it, and put his cold left cheek to his folded hands.

“It, uh… it was a puddle. A lovely, um… a lovely little puddle, is all.”

“What makes a puddle lovely?” Ron asked, tilting his head.

Harry was physically pained, even showed it on his face, and they both laughed at Ron calling him out on his use of unnecessary adjectives, which ran rampant at the Ministry, “Yes. Yes. Thank you. Please kill me now before it gets worse.”

“I find myself doing it too,” Ron assured. “Forget when it was--something on Monday after we finished lunch at the cafe and you’d gone back to the dungeon. We ran into director Bailey, I think he’s Head of Something... _About Something_ \--”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard they do great work there.”

“The Head of Arts and Culture, which explains why you know nothing about it,” Hermione corrected them both without looking up from her menu.

“Er, yeah,” Ron replied, and he and Harry shared their usual silent laugh when she threw blatant insults at them which had once been full of irritation but now more-so full of endearment, “sure, that was it. Anyway, the man talks like he’s Churchill. _Lovely this, success that, something something profound_ … maddening.”

Harry agreed with the assessment, then turned his attention to Ginny.

She was not so endeared.

He mentally grimaced, then tried to offer a light, close-lipped smile. It was genuine, nothing fake.

She did something with her mouth, then privately said to him, “You should go to the doctor.”

“I’m not... sick.”

“That’s what you say. Why don’t you give Malfoy a call, at least?”

No.

_No._

No.

“No.”

“You won’t talk to me.”

Harry closed his eyes, just took in the moment. This conversation. Again. He tried to maintain his composure, because, really, her comment was harmless. When he opened his eyes, she had looked away. He looked away, too, pulling his teeth over his bottom lip. He pulled his attention away from her beautiful, feminine profile, and he shifted his weight back in his chair, settling in and away from the table just in time for the waiter to come by. 

The table ordered, and Harry was the only one who abstained from an adult beverage. A water, just a water. That was all he had been drinking for two weeks, other than a stray bottle of pumpkin juice he grabbed from a little shop in the Ministry when he’d actually been there. He, um… he supposed there was some part of him that was very silently, very privately, assessing his relationship with alcohol.

Particularly, that was, the way he felt most himself when he’d had a couple of drinks. He hadn’t realized it until two weeks ago, but why would he have? He hadn’t been paying attention to some parts of himself, had clearly been neglecting some things buried inside that he hadn’t anticipated. The truth was, he became so much more... open when he drank. To feel that way, open, and like he could let go of some facade, made him realize that, despite the effort he still once in awhile made to be nuanced, he’d really built up an outward persona that was unaccepting of help, unaccepting of being vulnerable.

When he thought about _that_ night, which he tried not to think of TOO loudly when it did cross his mind, he was deeply uncomfortable and deeply unsettled. It wasn’t like he’d woken up that next morning with a hangover and deep regret, but he had certainly woken up barely having remembered the details and more-so just a blur and the fleeting feeling of that openness that had been gone by the time he’d gotten out of bed that morning. 

The realization had been enough to spark a conversation with himself.

It was one he hadn’t necessarily wanted to ever have with himself.

He hadn’t ever thought to have had it. 

What was his deal? Find where love hides? Wasn’t he deserving of something simple? Easy? No.

Again, the last two weeks had been exhausting, because, well, despite his intentions… he was avoiding having the conversations with himself, mostly because of being busy with work. That was what he told himself, anyway.

Why did he lie awake at night, unable to sleep? Chatter. Endless mindless chatter.

“Did you hear from Ella about your piece?” He asked her Ginny conversationally, tuning into her.

“No--don’t talk to me right now.”

“O _kay._ ”

“Just go back to talking to your friends and pretending everything’s fine.”

Harry’s lips pressed together, staring at her while she took a long sip of her drink before it even was set down upon the table by the waitress. He watched for a few more moments, glad to do so while she breathlessly and excitedly began to tell her two colleagues and friends about, indeed, her editor, Ella, and this piece Ginny had been trying to get in her ear about since the Ministry Christmas party. He couldn’t blame her for being irritated with him, in truth. Was he a fine boyfriend? He thought so. He tried to be. Was he the best boyfriend? Maybe not, not in her view. He was not as affectionate or doting or showing as she wanted him to be.

It felt uncomfortable to try to be a certain way in public for her, so he didn’t… try.

After dinner--a long, wonderful, delicious dinner--they all left the restaurant.

Harry and Ginny walked behind the others on their way down to a dark alley where they could apparate away discreetly. The couple of drinks she’d had seemed to ease her tension, because she leaned into him. He lifted his left arm and gently draped it over her smaller shoulders. He didn’t say anything. She looked up at the streetlights, clearly sensing that his attention was on her.

“Can I come back to yours?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes shifted to his, “Can I _come back_ to yours?”

“ _Oh_ ,” he realized, almost with a chirp, and her eyes widened. Yeah, he was a little cute. “Oh--uh, sure, but, uh,” his right hand came up from his side and he thumbed at the corner of his mouth as he paused thoughtfully, not sure how to proceed. He thought for a moment, and when he looked at her, he could see that she was already becoming irritated that he hadn’t immediately just said “YES!” He sighed about it, taking note of that wrinkled forehead.

“ _But_ you’re tired? _But_ I’ve had something to drink? _But_ you didn’t have anything to drink? _But_ …”

Harry didn’t immediately reply. He wanted to. The words were always right there, sitting in the back of his throat. He didn’t want to hurt her. He cared about her. And look, these were not new personalities here. He was Harry. She was Ginny. She had always been outgoing and fierce, open with her feelings and showy. Harry, less so. Harry had a harder time navigating a relationship, because… that was what he wanted in the deepest parts of him.

“I annoy you, Gin. Pretty bad, it would seem.”

“You don’t annoy me. You infuriate me.”

Harry shot her a side glance, and lightly replied, to try to keep the mood neutral, “Maybe both.”

“Yes! Both. And I _hate_ when you’re agreeable.”

He agreed with her, mostly because, yeah, she’d had like five cocktails, “I also hate when I’m agreeable.”

“Please stop being agreeable.”

“Okay.”

She stopped, so Harry stopped with her, naturally, but his arm came down and away. Oh…

She turned around after a moment, facing him, under a streetlight. Her expression was flat.

Harry’s hands moved for his coat pockets, squaring his shoulders.

“Do you love me?” She asked.

Under a street light.

He tried to think of a way to get out of this, a way to say just the right thing, and opened his lips a couple of different times, eyes on her at first. He looked around, seeing that their friends had already turned into the alleyway. There was no getting out of this. He wouldn’t have wanted to, anyway. He stopped searching the surroundings for safety, lastly lifting his own eyebrows. He was tired of this, and he tried his damnedest to be what she needed, and who she needed, and it was never right.

“Yes.”

“But?”

“There is no _but.”_

The more silence that passed between them, the louder his pulse raced.

He came unhinged--a rarity, but… but… he couldn’t keep doing this rollercoaster, “What else can we do? We are both too young to be having this level of, of… of--I--I don’t even know what this _is_. It sure as hell doesn’t feel like…”

She was staring at him, turned her head ever so slightly to the right, eyes on fire, and dared him to finish, “Like _what_?”

That was a trap, which he quickly walked himself back from, and he just put it out there, “It… it’s not working.” She blinked at him. His lips closed together and he pressed them tightly together, carefully watching her. Every movement on her face. He wasn’t THIS guy. He wasn’t this guy to stand out here and--and what? Break up with a girl this way? And he could see the realization coming over her. Hearing this out of him was probably not what she’d been expecting, but--but--she pushed, and she pushed, and she pushed! And he tried.

All of the sudden, she stood up straight. Gone was the irritation.

Harry didn’t offer another word. He didn’t move. He didn’t go to take it back, nor explain.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, and motioned back, turning, to return to walking. “You’re right, I’m a bitch when I drink. Forget it, forget I said anything.”

Forget until _when_? The next time. No. No, this… this wasn’t _it_.

Harry watched as she started to walk again, but his feet would not move. He stayed planted.

She slowed to a stop a good three meters away, fully aware he had not followed her, and turned.

Harry put his hands out, in his coat pockets, at his sides. He had nothing else to say.

It was usually Harry who twisted, who capitulated, who was the adult and said, “we’ll talk about it later.” That was what he usually would have done, then made sure she got home safe. The world had seemingly flipped itself upside down under that streetlight. There was this voice in his head, now, that hadn’t been there before. He’d always been ruled by his heart. He’d never wanted to be alone. He did love Ginny, and he’d never wanted to fuck it up.

But why was it him? He was a nice guy. He tried to be a “good” person.

Whatever this was, whatever this had turned into, was robotic. He was never enough. He carried that now. It was a THING.

And THAT was exhausting, and crippling, and hurtful.

“Harry,” she finally said, after a good long few moments of silence, “I said I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He finally moved towards her. She turned, quickly, and started to walk. He knew she was freaked out. He could see that she knew something had just fundamentally changed, and though they walked together into the alleyway, there was space between them and silence.

“Goodnight,” he offered her, when it seemed like she might move towards him for a hug goodnight. Confirmed, by the way her mouth hardened and she looked off to the left with something of disbelief that she was trying SO hard to keep from him. Not hard enough, but it was somewhat satisfying.

“Goodnight,” she said in return, and though he felt the smallest tinge of guilt for upsetting her-- _typical_ , he heard some version of himself comment--when she was gone and he was standing there alone, the relief washed over him. He pulled his hands from his pockets and physically shook them, not sure what to do with himself.

When he’d woken up that morning, he sure as hell wouldn’t have expected this was how he would be ending the evening. When he arrived home in the foyer, Hermione and Ron were making out on the stairs. He ignored them, as usual, hung his coat and scarf, quietly, and then slid by them on the stairs, taking the old wood steps two at a time. He moved for his room, not bothering to turn the lights on, and slid down onto the bed with his hands folding behind his head.

Feelings--emotions--were excruciating and useless. It was mostly indifference that he felt, which maybe didn’t help the situation. Indifference towards himself, towards Ginny. Even towards this house, and just his life in general. He was generally unmoved these days, despite things having fallen into a pretty stable place. At his age, having a stable and budding career? Great friends? A home of his own? A fortune in the bank? And a great girlfriend? All of the check marks, and that was excluding just, well… being _him_.

The following day, after noon, with his work on the case files wrapped up back in the dungeon, he headed to the Ministry. Instead of heading to the Auror department, he found himself walking down the more modern, less archaic wing of the Department of Architecture. It was nothing like the Magical Law Enforcement floors and wings, which were constantly busy and bustling.

No crimes were being cracked open or investigated here.

“Harry?”

He turned, from standing idly by a window and staring out and down at the street, to see Maxius standing there. He had on a friendly expression, holding a folder in his left hand and pulling his glasses off with his right. He was surprised to see Harry there. Maybe Harry, too.

“What brings you to our quiet corner of the Ministry?”

He struggled with the answer, which in itself seemed to be enough of one for Maxius.

“Let me take these down to Bixley. Please, go in and take a seat.” He motioned to his office.

Harry watched him take his leave but stood there, looking out the window, until he returned. He moved in for the office then, following Maxius, who quietly closed the door once Harry was in and had taken a seat. He came around his desk, putting his glasses down upon it. He sunk into his chair in a comfortable way, not too far from how Harry was slouched in his own chair in front of the desk. He rested his cheek to his right palm, leaning against his bent arm. He lifted his head, though, not wanting to be alarming.

Maxius maybe wasn’t sure what to say. He was giving Harry time.

“Thanks,” Harry offered, finally. “Is there anything available I could, uh… help with?”

“Help with?”

“Er… yes, anything.”

“Volunteer slots or,” Maxius attempted, “ _other_ opportunities?”

“I’m dutifully employed...”

“I never saw you today. This conversation never took place. How’s that?”

“Appreciated."

“We have three positions open across the department. Nothing on the pay scale you’re making now or would be making when you rank up where you are. We’re… not exactly seen as essential to the Ministry. The historical branch is well funded, preserving historical architecture and artifacts, which of course was the budget behind the work that went on when we were restoring the school after the war. And so it doesn’t pay well, but the trade off is that we love what we do. It’s regular hours. The boss is flexible.”

“Bixley?”

“Me. You’re not here just to talk about a job, though.”

He was right. Harry had found himself here for… advice? Here he was, “I really--I, er, I look back on that year, and I can see--or I understand--that I actually, well... enjoyed the work, even the research.”

“Who’s your supervisor?”

“Jack Diggle, know him?”

“I do. He’s reasonable. You could probably have a conversation with him without it getting back to,” and he just pointed up to the ceiling, to motion upstairs--WAY upstairs. “You’ve worked with my staff, and I’ve seen your work myself. I’d be so pleased to bring you on here, Harry, if you were truly interested. You know that, yeah?”

Harry agreed.

“It’ll always be here, this department. What won’t be here… exciting cases.”

“That sounds brilliant to me.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, “Where do you see yourself in two years… three?”

“I’d always pictured working up to being a first class auror,” Harry admitted. “Please never repeat this, but… I’ve done that. I was a first class auror, in the real world. Not in a basement dungeon doing research someone else can take for granted to take credit for. I know,” he heard himself. “I don’t… know. I don’t know.”

“Lad,” Maxius leaned up against his desk, his voice lowered, “this is par for the course. Take comfort in knowing you’re not the first frustrated, confused kid your age sat in front of this desk, questioning his or her existence up until this point.” His expression was perfect. It gave Harry freedom, albeit just for those few moments, to not feel so alone. “If Diggle is a company man, you go up to Reeves. If Director Reeves, who has been in that role since I arrived here ten years ago, pushes back, take it above him. You’re… Harry Potter. You have some weight, eh!?”

“Do I, though?”

Maxius didn’t consider it even for a moment, and ensured, “Yes. There is no one in that department who can question your credentials. Does the Minister know you’re doing remedial work?”

“Remedial work is fine; I told them I was fine with that.”

“It does not appear you are.”

“Well, in _hindsight,_ ” Harry laughed, then sighed. “I don’t know what I want.”

“And that’s okay.”

“Is it really, though? It doesn’t feel it.”

“ _Yes,_ Harry.” 

Harry ran a hand back through his hair, mulling it all over, and realized, “Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you had a meeting. Thanks for taking the time. I should head down, check in with Diggle.”

“My door is always open.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, as he stood, and reached out and offered his hand.

Maxius took it kindly and shook it, “Sure thing. On your way out, stop and take a look at the job postings.”

The work day finished as quietly as it’d begun, and he returned back to his home.

It was dead silent as he hung his cloak.

The walls were white. Bright. It could have been cold, but it comforted him all the same. He went into the drawing room and sat down after pulling the three folded pieces of paper out of his right pocket. They were copies of the three job postings he’d only briefly assessed earlier in the day. Only one seemed viable by the time he’d read them through. One required experience he did not have, and one was a paid internship. The viable one was a position in the Historical Preservation division, which did seem like a good opportunity. 

He moved over to the fireplace after awhile, in a bit of a neutral zone, and threw some Floo powder down. He waited a moment before almost daring himself to say, “Malfoy Manor.” Instead of stepping in, he waited to see if there would be a response. It was doubtful as he turned away, until he heard a fizzle and pop. He turned and bowed his head, “Hello, Ms. Middy.”

“Mr. Harry Potter,” she returned with the same greeting. “Did you call?”

“Yeah, eh--well,” he hesitated. “Do you know if Draco is around?”

“I can check.”

Before he could tell her no, to protest, she was gone. Oh, great. That was sweet of her, but…

She reappeared, and he was full-on grimacing from the corner of the room. She looked around for him, and when she spotted him in the dark corner, he could tell that she was trying to hide her surprise and maybe a bit of laughter, as if it were definitely not appropriate, “He is home.”

“Thank you--um, I didn’t mean to make you go check,” he admitted. “Stupidly, I was unsure if my fireplace had been, uh… restricted? I heard that’s a thing.”

“No, sir.” Middy looked so perplexed. “Of course not. The connection is open between your home and the Manor.”

“Okay.” 

He was embarrassed.

“Should I tell him to be expecting you?”

“Oh… good question. Uh, _no._ Definitely not. Thank you, but… no. Thank you.”

She squinted, the tips of her ears turning down, and then departed without another word.

“Well handled,” he told himself in the mirror he glimpsed himself in. He smoothed his hands back through his hair and latched them around the back of his neck, face tilted up towards the ornate ceiling on his way out of the drawing room and to the kitchens to make himself up some dinner. He had noodles somewhere, maybe. He was in dire need of a trip to the supermarket, but for tonight he just needed something in his stomach. He fixed up his noodles and slid down into a chair at the huge, otherwise empty, table.

He heard the Floo, waited for Ron to appear, looking over expectantly at the hallway as he heard the floorboards. One of the swinging doors slowly came open, but it wasn’t Ron. It definitely wasn’t Ron, pale eyes searching, scanning, for any sign of life in the kitchen. It was there, just frozen at the giant table, with a spoon in its mouth, which slowly came out.

The dumbest thing happened--he just smiled so hard, despite himself, at the deft, humorous silence.

Draco stayed where he was, only one foot in the kitchen.

Harry put two and two together about the unexpected arrival. “Oh... Middy. I--I can see why she thought something was wrong. Yeah, sorry mate. I’m fine.” Of course, his voice cracked when he said _fine_. He cleared his throat. “ _Fine_. Come in, if you… want to.” 

“I'm only checking in to make sure you’re alive.”

He looked down at himself, at his left wrist that was on the table, “You could check my pulse.”

Harry could see all of the amusement flood Draco’s warm face.

"And what’s wrong with you _exactly_?”

The air came from Harry’s mouth quickly, nearly a whistle, looking down and to the left, “The question of the week.”

Draco finally moved, hung his head, just straight up dropped it so his chin was to his chest and his hair fell, but when it came up, he was smiling. His cheeks were peaked, his light eyes were glistening, and he was trying so hard not to engage. His long fingers around the depth of the door braced it, and Harry could see his knuckles tensed. He gave a thorough nod when he was peering at Harry, who now sat spoonless and noodleless, and alone, at an off-center table. He was stony faced in return, though maybe not purposely so.

Harry finally managed, getting a grip, “I’m fine, really. You can go.”

“I’m here.”

Harry scooted his chair back, trying to find the words, and grabbed his bowl and headed for the sink, “I know you, um, probably don’t want to be, but thank you.” He turned, wiping his hands together as he came away from the sink. He stopped by the island, keeping a distance, but now Draco had come into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging slightly off its hinge so it made a wobbling sound. He did need to fix that.

“Sit down.” He motioned to the table, so Harry slid back down into his chair.

Draco came closer, pulled the chair on the other side of the table out, and sat down too.

“I mean,” Draco attempted, after a good fifteen seconds of not knowing how to begin.

Hearing “I mean,” said that way again…

“You came looking for me. _I’m here_.” He fixed Harry with a long stare. “So, what is it?”

Harry was moody, finding himself struggling before mumbling irrationally.

“ _What_? Ugh, Potter,” he laughed, unbothered. “Well played. Good try. And so on.”

“No, it’s--it’s just me. A right mess. How are you? How’s life… treating you?”

“Thank you for your interest. Or concern? Things are good.”

“Good,” Harry genuinely enthused, and found himself leaning forward to express it so. “ _Good_.”

The eyes opposite of his lowered slightly, and shifted leftward, away from his own.

“I came looking for you earlier, because,” Harry finally began, “I… value your insight. That’s not really surprisingly, or shouldn’t be. It’s been a weird couple of weeks--oh, um, not because of…” He sighed, then just this noise came out of him that he’d never heard before. He digressed, just sat back against his chair, blowing air out of his lips, and let the sentence go right there. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Wish you wouldn’t have come. Don’t really want to be seen how I am right now.”

“By that, you mean speaking in broken sentences and sighing a lot?”

Harry couldn’t help his embarrassed laugh, though he tried his best to squash it with his eyes lowered, “Don't know what you mean.. _._ ”

“I wouldn’t argue that I’ve seemingly caught you out of your element.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s… why I didn’t actually Floo over.”

“Perhaps,” Draco began, a few moments later, after eying the table, “you should have a nice cup of tea. That is my expert, remedial triage mediwizard opinion.”

“Brilliant.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll give that a shot.”

“Actually, a shot of whiskey in there isn’t a bad idea. Have you considered doing remedial triage?”

Harry laughed, despite himself, arms crossed over his chest, watching Draco now openly, “You’re… um, you’re a _treasure_.”

They breezed right on by the topic of whiskey, though Harry could see realization on his face.

“Since you _are_ here, can I use your ear?” He got a nod, a lone nod, maybe a soft nod, in return.

It was the reason Harry had gravitated towards attempting to Floo the manor earlier.

He knew Draco had good insights on things, listened, and saw things from a different perspective than not just Harry but Harry’s friends. He had heard their insights lately, but he also didn’t want to harp on things. And Draco being here, coming here, meant a lot. Harry would take advantage of it, of the gesture, maybe if it wasn’t the best idea to do so when he was so messed up about, well… everything. He was like a… like a really knotted and disastrous ball of yarn, and when he tried to unravel himself, it was like he just made the yarn a bigger mess.

“Everything I thought I wanted,” he just barely managed, “I… _don’t_ anymore. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Draco didn’t say anything immediately, thinking it over while watching Harry look between his hands as though there were a book there that should _magically_ appear, full answers, full of wisdom and guidance, “Work?”

“Everything.”

“Oh,” and in any other situation, he definitely would have lightened the mood with a joke about this being part of Harry’s continued existential crisis, but perhaps, in this moment, indeed it was an existential crisis and too vulnerable of a moment to make light of. Light wasn’t needed. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea. When I give you your tea, I’m going to ask you a question that you should sleep on. Think it over. I’ll be back sometime to discuss, but dinner’s ready back home, and I’m starving.”

Harry itched an eyebrow with a knuckle, and he laughed though his lips were tightly closed, so it came from his nose, “Fair enough, but I can make the tea myself. I don’t want to keep you.”

“No, you misunderstand me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry offered. “I will make some tea, laced with whiskey, and… pass out for the night.”

“I wasn’t brushing you off,” he said, as Harry stood. “This is a genuine _technique_.”

“Okay. But I can still ask myself the question while I drink my tea. What is it?”

Draco grabbed the tea tin from the counter that Harry went towards, which caused Harry to be magnetically repelled from him, around the other side of the island, as if embarrassed to be that close suddenly. And yes, perhaps that’s exactly what it was. He didn’t want either of them reading into anything, so actually… tea seemed like a bad idea, at least for an increasingly paranoid Harry who looked over his left shoulder as he rubbed his forehead in a distressed way.

“Sit down, Potter.”

Harry huffed importantly in that rare way, and he could tell with one tiny glance from Draco’s delighted expression that he was being weird again--that really weird side of him that seemed to not give a fuck if Draco witnessed it. 

This was, Harry truly knew, the truest sign of friendship. He decided it was all too much and deadpanned back at Draco’s open amusement now.

“I’m not looking to be a test subject for whatever experimental remedial mediwizard potion you’re about to slip into my tea.”

Draco’s smile, his teeth pressed down over his bottom lip, finally evolved into a full on laugh, but he sobered after a few moments once he’d put the kettle on, “It’s far worse than that, I’m afraid. There’s a hideously tender anecdote I should know better than to share, but sometimes such things are necessary.” He prefaced the moment, then glanced at Harry to get his approval, that he wouldn’t completely take the piss out of him for it. He got assurances in the squinting eyes. “There aren’t many memories… I should specify, _warm_ memories… I had with my mother as I was growing up. Whenever things were truly bleak, though, she’d make me a cup of tea and leave me with a question to mull over. It has a way of fixing everything, even if but for a few minutes.”

Of course, Harry could barely help the fond, almost shy, reaction of his own, as he watched.

It _was_ a bit of a hideously tender admission, mostly because of the way it’d been delivered.

“On you go,” Draco told him, motioning his head to the left. “Scram. Go on, then. _Get_."

“Shoo!"

"How _dare_ you. On you go."

"Yeah, all right.”

“All right.”

“All _right_.”

“ _Merlin_.”

Harry finally cracked a smile, too, and turned, after half-assedly lifting his hands in surrender, walked over to the table, and took a seat. He sat, waiting for his cup of ordinary tea, extraordinarily prepared.

When it came, after Draco placed it down, he looked squarely into Harry’s unprepared eyes, and asked, “How many fingers can you see on how many of your hands?” He lifted his eyebrows to match Harry’s expression, so he would hold off on judgment just yet.

He was looking down at the tea cup, now, and particularly not at Draco, who took his leave.

He glanced back, at the doors, and he could see there was something on Harry’s face which Harry was positive asked “are you fucking with me?” He didn’t ask it aloud, though. 

Once he was out of the room, Harry smiled fully into his steaming cup of tea, right around the rim, with teeth, and sighed a soft, tired laugh and gave the tiniest of nods to himself. Perhaps he would mull the question over, once he had fully processed the exchange. He finished the hot tea prepared with sentimentality, not enough sugar, and a full dose of humility.


End file.
